5th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: A collection of holiday hurt!Sam stories based on prompts. Requests are CLOSED! Chapter 11: Christmas isn't fun when you're on bed rest. Just ask Sam.
1. Chapter 1: Christmas Blues

_**Author's Note:**_ _It's been a long time! My real life has gotten way busier, leaving me little time to write fanfic. But you didn't think I'd skip out on this wonderful tradition, did you? Welcome to the 5_ _th_ _Annual 25 Days of Hurt!Sam! It's hard to believe that it's been five years since I started doing this. I look forward to writing some more of your wonderful holiday themed prompts!_

 _For those of you who are new to this, welcome! This is a collection of holiday hurt!Sam stories based on prompts you submit! It's my Christmas gift to all you wonderful readers. Before I can start writing though, let's go over some ground rules!_

 _I am a gen author!_ _ **I do not write slash of any kind.**_ _Sorry! I do write canon pairings though._

 _ **I do not accept M-rated prompts.**_ _Nothing about rape or abuse or extreme violence, etc._

 _ **One prompt per person!**_ _I want to write as many stories for as many people as I can. Please pick one prompt and submit that. If you can't decide, feel free to list out your ideas._ _ **To submit a prompt, leave a review. I don't have PM turned on so don't use that.**_

 _ **Sam must be hurt in this story.**_ _You can tell me how you want him to be hurt (i.e. fever, the Trials, etc.) or you can leave it up to me. Either way, Sam will be getting the brunt of the damage and someone else will take care of him. This doesn't mean someone else can't be injured but Sam will be the one getting hurt the worst._

 _ **Your prompt must have something to do with the holidays.**_ _Pick any aspect of this time of year and make your prompt revolve around that!_

 _ **Prompts are fulfilled in a first come, first serve basis.**_ _I will also be closing prompts before the end of November to be sure I have enough time to get through a lot of them, if not the majority._

 _Without further ado, let's get this started! This is set during Sam's time at Stanford._

* * *

" _Christmas time is here,_

 _Families drawing near,_

 _Oh, that we could always see_

 _Such spirit through the year."_

— _Vince Guaraldi Trio, "Christmas Time Is Here"_

* * *

His first Christmas away from home is not as joyous as Sam expected.

Sure, he's at the school of his dreams, and excelling no less, but as he walks out of the library after an intense pre-finals study group, he can't help but feel empty. The twinkling lights that adorn some of the campus buildings and the distant sounds of carolers doesn't uplift him like they usually do. This is normal with a capital N and everything that Sam has ever wanted and yet . . .

And yet, he's not happy.

* * *

"Dude," Brady starts as soon as Sam enters their dorm, "You look pissed."

Sam tosses his book bag on his bunk and sighs.

"Something wrong?" Brady questions, but Sam just shrugs.

What can he really say? That he misses his dad and Dean? As far as Brady is concerned, Sam doesn't really have a family, at least not one that he's talked about. Sam has kept his past a secret, only giving out information on a need-to-know basis. He's constructed a careful backstory for himself and he can't let his façade fail.

"It's nothing." Sam dismisses, a tired smile on his lips.

"Good," Brady perks up, a devilish grin alighting on his lips, "Cause we've got plans."

Sam's eyebrows raise, "Plans?"

"Christmas party plans," Brady begins and just when he sees Sam about to interject, he hastily adds, "Dude, there is more to life than studying for finals. Like girls. Really cute girls."

Sam's never been to a Christmas college party before. Maybe Brady has a point.

At least, it could take his mind off Dean and John for a few hours.

* * *

Except, Sam forgot how much a sap he becomes once he has one or two beers.

A lightweight, Dean would scoff with a teasing glint in his eyes. Either way, Sam finds himself morose, sitting at the bar, wallowing in his loneliness. He knew that when he walked out the door, that would be it. John would never accept Sam's choice to walk away from the life. And Dean . . . well, Dean had just stood there and let John tear into Sam, like he approved of their father's harsh tone and sharp words.

Why should Sam miss them?

But it's almost Christmas. A time for people to gather with family and even though he never experienced a true "normal" Christmas, he still misses the newspaper wrapped gifts and their father's lame excuse of a Christmas dinner. Maybe it isn't normal, but for Sam, it's home.

 _If you walk out that door, don't you dare come back!_

Sam takes another swig of his beer, letting the liquid burn down his throat.

"Sam?" A soft voice asks and he turns his head. A beautiful blonde with the prettiest eyes he's ever seen comes to stand next to him. She smiles nervously, "It's Sam, right?"

He can't figure out how to make his voice work, but somehow, he nods his head.

"I'm Jessica." She introduces herself. She's wearing one of those tacky Christmas sweaters with dancing reindeer on it, but it looks flattering on her.

"I remember." They have econ together each Thursday and he's been trying to work up the nerve to try and talk to her for weeks.

"Brady said you were having trouble with your econ exam? Did you want to study sometime?"

"Yes!" He says it much too loud, but Jessica just laughs and God, it's a beautiful sound, a melodic one that lifts his spirits.

"Tuesday?" She questions and he quickly nods, "Great, I'll meet you at the library at about one." She grabs a drink before waving and disappearing in the crowd.

Well, he thinks, at least things are turning around.

* * *

But they're not.

The loneliness strikes again, that empty feeling that's tearing him apart. He wants to call Dean, to hear his voice, but Sam knows he can't. Who knows if his brother would even pick up? Dean has always been John's perfect little soldier. If John had told Dean not to answer, then there is no way that Dean would.

"You've got the Christmas blues." Brady deduces as they drink a cup of coffee in the library.

"That's not real—" Sam dismisses, flipping a page in his econ book. He wants to be prepared for his study session with Jessica in a few days.

Brady rolls his eyes, "It is! Why do you think shrinks are so busy this time of year?" Brady pauses to let the information sink in, but Sam dismisses it.

He doesn't have the Christmas blues.

Not even close.

* * *

Though, he may have a fever and a cold.

As he nearly hacks up his lung for the fifth time in the past hour, Brady's had enough.

"Dude, you've got to go to the health office."

"It's nothing."

Brady glares, "Maybe they can give you some cough medicine though. I can't sleep if you keep that up."

Sam supposes that's a fair point and as much as he dislikes going to doctors—John always wanted him to tough it out—he will if only to assuage Brady.

* * *

How he ended up in the hospital though is a bit of a blur.

Turns out the fever wasn't that mild and the cough, well that was a sign of fluid in his lungs.

"Walking pneumonia," The kindly doctor informs him, "Your symptoms aren't as severe as what we would see in normal pneumonia cases, but it's best to keep you here until the course of antibiotics is done."

Sam wants to disagree. He's never liked hospitals—too many close calls, too many sleepless nights—but this is what normal people do. They don't run away with the medicine in tow. They stay put and trust their doctors.

"How long?" It's hard to talk with the nasal cannula and the medicine running through his veins. He feels a bit loopy, but he hasn't been coughing in a while so that's a plus.

The doctor frowns, "Until after Christmas, I'm afraid."

Sam's face falls.

"Is there anyone we can call for you?"

Dean. He wants Dean here.

"No," Sam lies, "I'm fine."

* * *

The fever spikes in the night.

Fire licks at his sides and he sees hazy figures of nurses, whispering nonsensical words as they place wet towels on his forehead. The room spins and moving his body causes needles to stab him. He finds himself crying, but he doesn't care. He's alone and scared. Is normal worth this? He just wants—

"Dean."

There's a burning at his I.V. and then blissful darkness.

* * *

Sam can't quite believe what he's seeing.

"Dean?"

The figure sitting in the well-worn chair across from his hospital bed is definitely his older brother, but Sam can't quite tell if he's still hallucinating or not.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean's voice is hoarse and he's got five o'clock shadow, but it's definitely his brother in the flesh. He smiles tightly and pats Sam's arm. "Merry Christmas."

"What?" Sam's voice is parched and Dean hands him a cup of water. Sam drinks it greedily, relishing the cool sensation along his throat. When he puts the water aside, he takes in his brother, committing every feature of his brother to memory.

"You feeling better?" Dean questions softly, "You've been out of it for a bit."

"What happened?"

Dean winces and Sam knows it must've been bad. Bad enough for Dean to come and risk John's wrath anyways.

"Your fever spiked and the pneumonia resisted the medicine they first gave you," Dean replies softly, "Looks like they've finally got some antibiotics that are working."

Silence.

Faint Christmas music echoes down the halls.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" Sam's wanted him here more than he could ever express, but he always thought it would be impossible. Dean would never go against John, would he?

"What do you mean?" Dean retorts sharply, "You were sick, Sam. They called Bobby and gave him a damn heart attack when they said you were in the ICU. Of course he called me—"

"But Dad—"

"Screw Dad!" Dean shouts, tone harsher than Sam's ever heard it. "You think I'm just gonna let you sit here on your own?" Dean folds his arms across his chest, his eyes blazing with fury, "C'mon, Sam, you know better."

Sam does know better. He's always known that Dean's loved him. He always believed that Dean would come back, that they would somehow get over this impasse together. He just never thought it would happen anytime soon.

"By the way," Dean smirks, "A hot blonde chick stopped by. Said her name was Jessica."

Sam blushes, ducking his head.

Dean laughs.

"Dude, you're telling me everything!"

And that's how Sam spent his first Christmas away from home, in the hospital, with his big brother by his side.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm a bit rusty from a lack of writing, but I hope you all still enjoyed. I'm looking forward to writing more often! Please review if you have a moment! Thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2: Sight

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thank you for all the well wishes and for welcoming me back! I had no idea that this tradition was something that people looked forward to! I shall do my best to get through as many of these prompts as I can._

 _Our first prompt comes from_ _ **AngelofGrace96**_ _who requested, "Sam getting hit in the head by an icicle and going temporarily blind? Then he feels embarrassed about Dean having to help him around everywhere. Preferably before s4 please!" Thank you for this interesting prompt! Let's set this in season one. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _My idea of Christmas, whether old-fashioned or modern, is very simple: loving others. Come to think of it, why do we have to wait for Christmas to do that?"_

― _Bob Hope_

* * *

The whole thing was kind of ridiculous if you thought about it.

Here they are, in the middle of freaking Montana of all places, on what is supposed to be a short vacation from finding their father and hunting down the latest monster going bump in the night. Of course, Dean would never tell Sam the truth—he really insisted on this break because Sam is wearing himself into the ground.

Between their missing father and the weight of Jessica's death, Sam's burning the candle at both ends. His kid brother has bags under his eyes and looks like he's carrying all of the world's problems. Of course, Sam wouldn't hear about resting—not that the kid could sleep well as it was between the nightmares and the trauma of seeing his girlfriend burned alive on the ceiling.

Dean wasn't a miracle worker. He couldn't wave his hand and make all of his little brother's problems disappear, even though he wished he could. So, all he could do was take care of Sam and try to get the kid to take a break. A snow day, he'd pitched to Sammy, a chance to get away from it all. It was getting close to Christmas after all and though Sam would never admit, his little brother had always been envious of those families that got to spend Christmas in a perfect picture snowy place.

Which is how they ended up in a classy hotel in Montana. Surrounded by powdery snow and trees and fresh air, Dean could already see Sam's spirits lifting. This would be good for the both of them.

"We're really staying here?" Sam questioned, voice light and tinged with excitement.

"Until Christmas at least." Dean promised.

Sam beamed and it was like the sun had finally appeared after a dark storm.

This would be good for both of them.

* * *

Of course, them being Winchesters, the picture-perfect vacation doesn't last long. It takes precisely three hours for the Winchester luck to kick in and an icicle to hit Sam directly on his head. One second, Sam was upright and animatedly talking and the next, he was down and unconscious. In the biting winter air, Dean checked Sam to see how much damage was done, but surprisingly, aside from a nasty bump, Sam looked okay.

Maybe they had caught a break after all.

Sam groaned.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean soothed softly, "Take your time."

Sam's eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused.

Dean grinned, "You with me?"

"Dean?" Sam called out, confusion lacing his tone. It figured that Sam would be disoriented. Taking a hit to the head would do that to anyone. Dean would need to monitor him and make sure that he didn't need a trip to the hospital for tests. John may have taught them a lot of things, but one thing their father had drilled into their heads was never to mess around with head injuries.

"You okay?" Dean pulled him into a sitting position, his arm wrapped securely around Sam's shoulders.

"Dean?" Sam's tone grew more and more scared and a shiver went down Dean's spine. Something was wrong.

"I'm here." Dean assured him.

"I can't see you."

Dean's heart fell.

"I can't see anything."

Looks like a trip to the hospital was in order after all.

* * *

Dean hated hospitals.

They were places that held fear—fear of never walking back out, fear of living never being the same—but even Dean had to admit that sometimes a trip to the hospital was necessary.

Somehow, he managed to get Sam settled in, though his own heart was racing a mile a minute. It was a small blessing that Sam couldn't see the worry etched on his face or the concern filling his eyes. If Sam never could see again—

No, he couldn't jump that far ahead. Not yet. And if it came to that, they would deal with it.

"Dean?" Sam extended his hand out and instantly, Dean took it, holding it securely.

"Doctor should be back soon." They'd taken Sam for a battery of tests earlier, trying to determine what had happened exactly and what the extent of the damage was.

There was a soft knock on the door before Dr. Moore, a kindly matronly woman in her 50's, stepped into the room, a small smile on her lips.

"Hi Sam," She greeted, then took a seat across from them, "I've got your test results."

"How is it?" Sam questioned.

"You've suffered what we call cortical blindness."

"What is that?" Dean asked.

"Well, the icicle basically hit Sam's head in such an angle that it caused some bruising in the brain," Seeing Dean's alarm, she quickly added, "But what that means is that the blindness is temporary. Once the swelling goes down, your vision will return."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and Dean could finally feel his own lungs finally expanding enough to take a breath.

"How long will that take?" Sam inquired, "And will I need to stay here?"

Dr. Moore shook her head, "I'm comfortable with releasing you. Again, the bruise is minor but just happens to be in the right space. If your brother is comfortable with looking after you—"

"I am." Dean interjected.

Dr. Moore chuckled, "Great. Well, the swelling should clear up within a few days. If it doesn't come back and see me."

"Will do." Sam nodded.

Dr. Moore stood, "Okay, I'll have the discharge papers sent up then." She paused at the doorway, "Have a Merry Christmas, boys."

The door closed behind her and Dean faced Sam.

"Guess we lucked out, huh?"

Sam just sighed, "Yeah, but a few days being blind? Dude, that's going to suck."

"That's what you've got me for." Dean assured him.

But for some reason, Sam didn't seem too thrilled about that.

* * *

Maybe Dean had underestimated how hard taking care of a blind Sam would be.

The kid was fiercely stubborn—though that was nothing new—and his temporarily blindness hadn't done anything to deter that. Sam would try to navigate on his own, crashing into things on the way. When Dean finally put his foot down and insisted on helping Sam, his little brother would become agitated.

Though, for the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out why.

By day three, they were both at each other's throats. With Christmas right around the corner, their perfect vacation was slowly becoming their worst nightmare. In fact, though he was loathe to admit it, Dean was getting pretty close to saying something to Sam that he wouldn't be able to take back.

"Just what the hell is your problem, huh?" Dean snapped, after Sam refused to be guided around to the couch.

"I can do it myself, Dean!" Sam growled.

"Really, genius? Then why did you end up crashing into that wall?"

Though he couldn't see himself, Sam still could do the best bitch face. Glowering, he little brother hissed, "I don't want your help."

Dean folded his arms across his chest, "Tough. You need it."

A flush filled Sam's cheeks and suddenly, it hit Dean like a bolt of lightning. Of course, Sam had always been stubborn and independent. As a toddler, the kid hated being held and was always determined to make his own way in the world, even if that meant falling and scraping his knees. As he'd grown up, that drive to be independent had only grown. So, being blind and forced to rely only on his brother—Sam wasn't angry, he was embarrassed! The kid probably felt like he was a burden.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't answer and Dean just smirked.

"Sam, this is only temporary."

"I know."

"Everyone needs a little help now and again."

"This isn't a little help, Dean!" Sam retorted, "This is being completely helpless and I didn't want to do that to you. You shouldn't need to take care of me."

Before he could even let Sam utter another word, Dean's arms encircled his brother. He'd never been good at letting his words express his thoughts. He always settled for actions instead. He just hopes Sam understood the truth—that no matter what happened, Dean would always be there to take care of him.

"I've got you, Sammy."

And damn it all if Sam's grip didn't get just a little bit tighter.

* * *

So, maybe the vacation was a complete bust.

But as the snow fell outside on Christmas morning, Sam opened his eyes and Dean knew.

"Welcome back, Sammy."

And as Sam's gaze finally met his, Dean couldn't help but feel like it was the best Christmas ever.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

Maybe something good had come out of this mess of a vacation after all.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was a bit hard for me to come up with an idea but I enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	3. Chapter 3: Perfection

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thank you again for all the kind words! I'm going to say that_ _ **REQUESTS ARE CLOSED**_ _for now. If I happen to get through them all before Christmas, I will open them up again._

 _Our next request comes from_ _ **oooPennywiseooo**_ _, who requested "Dean finds a star for the tree top in a box in the bunker. He decides Sam should place it, not knowing how bad that decision will turn out. Hurt!Sam/Dean." You got it! Let's set this early in season 8 so before the Trials and all that jazz._

* * *

" _Through the years we all will be together_

 _If the fates allow_

 _Hang a shining star upon the highest bough_

 _And have yourself a merry little Christmas now."_

— _Frank Sinatra, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas"_

* * *

Christmas has never really been a big deal for them before.

Sure, they've celebrated each year with newspaper wrapped presents, crappy TV specials, spiked eggnog and a barely living tree, but this year is different. They have somewhere that's all their own now. Maybe it's not necessarily their home yet—though Dean feels like it's the closest thing they'll ever get—but it's theirs and finally, they can decorate for Christmas.

Turns out the previous occupants also enjoyed Christmas. While scouring the bunker, Dean's found boxes filled to the brim with lights and tinsel. They've even gone and bough a real life giant tree, the kind that you would see on those cheesy Hallmark movies.

Sam, for his part, seems to be enjoying the decorating. Dean figures that this might be the closest thing to normal that they've ever experienced together. But really, as long as Sam is happy and smiling, that's all Dean cares about.

"Sam."

Sam glances up from the lights he's stringing and meets Dean's gaze.

Dean smirks and holds out the small, golden tree topper. A simplistic, yet beautiful star just begging to be put on top of the tree.

Sam's eyes widen, "Wow. Where'd you find that?"

"Another box in the back. " Dean shrugs. Sure, it's been a box practically hidden in the back, sealed up with more tape than needed, but that hadn't deterred the eldest Winchester. He hands Sam the star and the youngest Winchester carefully turns it over in his palm, admiring the way it catches in the light.

"Should I put it up?" Sam questions, excitement coloring his words.

"Dude, why else would I give it to you?"

Sam glowers at him, but quickly moves toward the tree. They've gotten a pretty tall tree, but Sam's practically a sasquatch so he's able to easily slide the star into place.

"Looks great." Dean comments, coming to stand by Sam's side.

Sam beams, "I can't believe this is happening."

The star shimmers from its perch.

"Me neither."

Out of all the things he ever could've imagined, decorating a bunker with his baby brother for Christmas was never one of them. But now that it's happening, Dean's glad.

The star glows, emitting a golden light that soon engulfs the room.

The last thing Dean hears is Sam calling out for him.

Then, darkness.

* * *

The world he comes back to is not the one he's used to.

Charlie's face peeks at him, worry and curiosity evident in her eyes. Her red hair has been pinned up into a tight bun and as Dean blinks, he swears that she's wearing some sort of poufy emerald gown.

"Sir? Are you well?" Her formal tone perplexes him even more.

He sits up, the world spinning around him.

"Charlie?" He mumbles, rubbing his temples, trying to get rid of the distant ringing in his ears.

Charlie's brows furrow and Dean suddenly realizes that he's no longer in the bunker. No, instead he's in the parlor straight out of Dickens' fair. The fireplace roars, filling the room with an orange glow. Ornaments sparkle on the tall tree and as Dean blinks once more, he realizes Charlie is wearing a Victorian gown.

"Are you well, sir?" Charlie tries once more, "We found you out in the snow."

Dean forces himself to take a few breaths, trying to calm his pounding heart. He glances down and sees that he's wearing a black suit.

"What the hell?" He mutters.

Charlie ducks her head, a blush staining her cheeks, "You shouldn't say such things, sir."

"Charlie, it's me, Dean."

There's no recognition on her face. She rises from her place on the ground and smooths out the emerald skirts. Dean has to admit that she looks beautiful in the gown, though he wonders how she can breathe in that tight corset.

"The doctor is on his way," She assures him with a soft smile, "Please just rest until then. Shall I fetch some tea?"

She quickly leaves the parlor, her skirts rustling.

Dean shakily stands, trying to figure out what exactly happened. One second, they were in their bunker and then Sam had put that star on the tree and then—

Sam. Where was Sam?

Charlie returns, a tray of tea carefully balanced in her hands.

"Did you find anyone with me?" He questions urgently.

Charlie's brow furrows, "No, sir, we did not."

Okay, freaking out won't do Sam any good. It's obvious that he's been transported to some sort of weird alternate Christmas dimension of some sorts. Which is crazy, even for them, but it doesn't mean that Sam's in any danger. He just needs to gather more information and then he can make a plan.

"Miss—"

"Miss Bradbury," She tells him with a small grin, "And you, sir?"

"Uh, Dean, Dean Winchester."

She inclines her head ever so slightly, "Mr. Winchester."

"Where am I?" He must seem like a crazy person to her, but Charlie—or whoever this version of her is—doesn't seem fazed by his questioning.

"You are in the village of Dasher, sir."

"Like the reindeer," Dean remarks quietly, "That's not ironic at all."

"Come again?" Charlie presses and he smiles an apology at her.

"Listen, Miss Bradbury, you've been very kind but I need to—"

"The doctor is here!"

Dean's heart nearly stops when Jo, dressed in a snow-white gown, steps into the room, her blonde hair tumbling down. Behind her, Castiel stands in a suit, a briefcase in hand.

"Doctor." Charlie greets with a smile and Castiel bows stiffly to her.

"Miss Bradbury, I came as soon as I was able." He takes a step toward Dean. "This is the patient?"

"We found him in the snow," Jo explains, a small smile on her lips as she meets Dean's gaze, "Nearly frozen to death."

"I'm fine, really." Dean tries to assure them. He needs to get out of here and find Sam. Wherever he is, it's clear that it's not his reality. Seeing Jo alive and breathing and smiling—it brings up that sharp grief that he's tried to bury so deep within him.

Castiel grins jovially, "Let me be the judge of that, sir."

And without any room for argument, Castiel forces him to sit down.

* * *

Finally, after being given a bill of clean health by Dr. Castiel—Dean can't even begin to wrap his head around that one—he's finally free to head outside. Turns out that Charlie lives in one of those Jane Austen type manors and holy crap, he can't believe how much land she owns. When pressed about it, she tells him that she's distantly related to some royalty and that's how she acquired her "estate" as she calls it. Jo and Ellen live with her, though Ellen is currently in town and not expected back until tomorrow.

With Charlie and Jo by his side, they enter the small, charming village. It's something out a classic _Christmas Carol_ film. Perfect distribution of snow on the ground, charming decorations lining each house and shop, and the distant sound of carolers.

It's a perfect Christmas village.

"Mr. Winchester?" Jo spies his wistful gaze and it's hard for him to look at her. The last time he saw her . . . he doesn't like to think about that. At least here, she's alive and happy and breathing.

"Is there a bar or something?" He figures that his best bet at finding Sam is combing the area for information. It's clear that this town doesn't get many visitors. Sam is bound to stick out like a sore thumb.

Charlie nods, "Mr. Singer's pub." She points to a rustic building on the edge of the street.

"Mr. Singer?"

"Bobby Singer." Jo explains cheerfully.

Dean huffs out a breath, the grief suddenly choking up his voice. They hadn't lost Bobby too long ago and damn it all if Dean didn't miss him. Bobby was like their father and without him, sometimes Dean felt so lost.

"Do you mind if I step in?" Dean gets the feeling that young proper ladies wouldn't get in.

"We shall go see the dress store." Charlie nods and she and Jo stroll off.

Steeling himself, Dean pushes open the door to the bar.

Sure enough, Bobby is at front of the bar, polishing glasses. There are no patrons, though by the size of the place, Dean figures that he gets plenty of customers. Dean takes in every detail of Bobby's appearance, committing it to memory. It may not be his Bobby, but it's good to see him.

"You need something?" Bobby's voice is still gruff, though there's an undercurrent of kindness hidden within it.

"I'm looking for my brother. Tall. Skinny. Shaggy hair?"

Bobby nods his head slowly, "I ran into someone like that on my way from hunting."

Dean, eager, leans in, "Where?"

"Forest. On the edge of town."

He takes one more look at his surrogate father before thanking him and heading back out the door.

"Hang on, Sammy."

* * *

The forest doesn't exactly scream creepy, but Dean feels uneasy. For one thing, it's pitch black in there and since flashlights haven't been invented, he'd be going in blind. For another thing, he knows there must be some sort of supernatural element here at play. How else would they have stumbled into a perfect Christmas town populated by all their loved ones, past and present?

Still, he can't just stand here. He needs to find Sam.

"Sammy!" He calls out as he heads into the forest.

Darkness surrounds him and his voice echoes, the only sound there. No birds, no squirrels—just silence. Never a good sign. As he moves deeper toward the heart of the forest, the trees seem to twinkle, almost as if they have Christmas lights wrapped around them.

"Sammy, can you hear me?"

He enters a clearing and freezes.

"Sammy!"

Sam lies on the ground, pale and bleeding from his chest.

Dean sprints to him, his knees skidding on the dirt as he reaches for his baby brother. He curses as he sees the blood, so much blood, on the ground and taps his brother's face.

"Sammy, c'mon, wake up," He increases the tapping, but Sam doesn't respond. Dean's heart plummets, "Sam, don't do this." He finds a faint pulse and allows himself to breathe. All hope wasn't lost. He just needed to patch Sam up and get them out of here as soon as possible—

"Hello."

He stiffens at the soft, feminine voice floating on the breeze. He turns his head and spies the beautiful young woman. Her skin, as pale as the snow, seemed to glow as her icy blue eyes met his gaze. Her gown sparkles in the sunlight and the pale green compliments her chestnut hair.

She kneels beside Dean and Dean's grip around Sam tightens.

"Who are you?"

She smiles ruefully, "I am all that remains."

"What?"

She places a hand on Sam's cheek and sighs, "Your brother rejected my gift. Will you do so too?"

"What did you do to him?" Dean growls.

The woman flinches by the venom in his voice, "I offered him his wish—a perfect Christmas with the ones he loved. All I asked was that he stay with me forever." She grimaces, "He refused."

"Yeah, well newsflash lady, so do I."

It's clearly the wrong thing to say as her gaze narrows. She lifts the palm of her hand outwards and Dean finds himself floating in the air.

"I'm the only one who is left," She hisses, "I will not be alone anymore. One way or another, you and your brother will stay here with me, even if I have to kill you both."

A cursed object, Dean realizes too slow. That's why the box had been hidden and sealed with so much tape. And stupidly, Dean had opened it and then put Sam in harm's way. Now, Sam is bleeding out and unless Dean could figure out a solution, they were both going to die in this Christmas dimension.

"Look, don't do this," Dean pleads. He needs to stall, to come up with some sort of plan. He has no weapons, but if he can come up with a plan, maybe they could still escape, "This isn't very much in the vein of Christmas, is it?"

"I gave your brother his wish," She growls, "What could be better for Christmas?"

Dean squirms, trying to break free, but her hold on him is like iron. She squeezes her hand and Dean cries out, his chest painfully constricting. Any harder and she'll kill him.

That's when he hears it, the faint chanting. His eyes dart to where he left Sam and he can't help but gawk. Sam, still bleeding, has somehow propped himself up against a tree trunk.

"Sammy!"

Sam continues the quiet litany under his breath and the woman—ghost—flinches. She drops Dean and turns toward Sam.

"Stop!" She roars, about to attack him, but Dean quickly throws himself at her, dragging her down to the ground. She has a solid form in this realm and Sam must be trying to break the curse on the star. Without the object, she would have no power and simply fade away.

Sam continues, voice growing stronger.

The ghost flickers in and out of existence.

"I will not go!" She screams, but the battle is already lost. A second more and she vanishes.

Sam sinks back, his eyes sluggishly falling shut.

Dean rushes to him, "Hey, Sammy, stay with me."

"D'n?"

"I'm here, I'm here, just keep breathing—"

Sam doesn't seem concerned about his injuries though. He reaches up, brushing against the angry red skin that the ghost caused when she tried to crush the eldest Winchester.

"Sam, I'm fine, okay, I promise you, let's just focus on you."

They need to get out, but how? The world should've collapsed when the ghost left, right?

"S'kay, D'n." Sam's voice slurs, his eyes falling shut as his body lists.

"Sam?" Dean shakes him, but Sam remains so still and lifeless, "Sammy, no!" Sam's pulse is gone and Dean can't find the source of the wound. It's almost as if she caused him to bleed internally and unless they broke free of this dimension, it wouldn't stop.

And as the snow falls around them, Dean screams out for his baby brother.

* * *

When Dean opens his eyes, he meets Castiel's cerulean gaze.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is hoarse and dry, like he hasn't used it in a millennium.

"Easy," Castiel helps him up slowly and Dean spies the Christmas tree topper shattered into a million pieces on the ground, "Are you well?"

That's when it comes pounding back, "Sam!"

"I'm okay." Sam, still pale, but not bleeding, faces his brother.

Dean reaches out for him, desperate to know for sure that his little brother isn't going to keel over on him anytime soon.

Sam smirks, though it's not as intense as usual, "I'm fine. Cas healed me up. He healed you up too."

"You lost a lot of blood, Sam—"

"He may feel woozy, yes," Castiel interjects, "But he is not in any immediate danger."

Dean turns to the angel, "How'd you know we were in trouble?"

Castiel points to the smashed star pieces, "When I arrived, there was a dark aura surrounding the star and neither you nor Sam were anywhere to be found. It made sense to smash it."

"You could've been hurt, Cas." Leave it to Sam to worry about others instead of himself.

Castiel grins, "I'm an angel. Few things can hurt me."

Dean sighs raggedly, the adrenaline quickly crashing.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam assures him with a tired smile, "We're okay."

Somehow, that doesn't calm Dean's erratic heartbeat.

"What was that thing?" Dean mutters.

"It appears it housed the spirit of a young Victorian woman who died at Christmas. It seems her spirit was tied to the ornament."

"Cas found some research on it in the library," Sam explain softly, "I think the Men of Letters were researching it. But it was too dangerous because whenever one of them touched it, it would suck them into an idylic Christmas world that they would never want to leave from."

"With people that passed away, like Jo and Bobby."

Sam's gaze darkened, "Yeah. That's why it was so dangerous."

Dean pounds his fist against the ground, "I should've known—"

"Dean, no—" Sam tries to protest but it's too late.

Dean had failed him. He'd failed at the one thing he truly prided himself on—protecting Sam.

And that, in itself, is unacceptable.

* * *

A few days later, after watching Sam like a hawk, his little brother finally confronts him.

"It's not your fault, Dean. You didn't know the star was cursed."

All the signs were there though. Dean had just chosen to ignore them. And it nearly gotten both of them killed. What kind of brother did that make him?

"Hey." Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, "I mean it, Dean. It's okay."

It's not though. Not even close.

"Sammy, I—"

Sam wraps his arms around Dean, letting his actions convey what words never could. Seeing all their loved ones—some that they had even lost—made him realize just how important Sam is in his life. Without his baby brother, he doesn't know how he could function. Maybe that's screwed up, but that's always been their normal.

"I get it, Sammy." Dean whispers as he holds Sam tight.

He wouldn't let his guard down, not for a while, but for Christmas at least, he wouldn't let the blame consume him. Whatever may come, he would protect Sam.

And when Sam lets go and smiles, Dean feels the world is right again.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This one spiraled out of my control. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please review if you have a second. Thanks!_


	4. Chapter 4: Following the Pack

_**Author's Note:**_ _Happy Holidays! It's December and I have so many wonderful prompts! I'm going to do my best to get through all of them and try to update quickly._

 _Our next prompt comes from_ _ **Leahelisabeth**_ _who requested, "Maybe Sam and Dean have two urgent cases on Christmas eve and so they split up but Dean gets into trouble and Sam has to go rescue him but almost dies in the process. But they don't entirely miss Christmas." Sounds good! Let's set this in season 8, post LARP and the Real Girl._

* * *

" _And, Michael, you would fall_

 _And turn the white snow red as strawberries_

 _In the summertime."_

— _Pentatonix, "White Winter Hymnal"_

* * *

It really shouldn't worry him as much as it does.

Dean is an experienced hunter, one more capable than Sam is. He's seen crazy stuff that Sam could only imagine and he's handled hundreds of cases on his own. His big brother is about the best hunter Sam knows. If anyone can handle a case involving a pissed off ghost haunting a wooden cabin, it's Dean.

And of course, Sam had been planning to go with him, but he'd gotten a frantic phone call from Charlie about a werewolf on the LARP grounds and after careful discussion—which mostly consisted of Sam arguing that yes, they needed to split up since both cases were urgent—he and Dean had gone their separate ways.

"Thanks, Sam." Charlie murmured, a small smile tugging on her lips.

He wiped his knife down disposed of the bloody rag. The werewolf had gone down pretty easily and no one had been hurt. All things considered, this was a win.

"I know it must be hard, doing a hunt on Christmas Eve." She tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear and took a small sip of her hot chocolate.

"You did the right thing," Sam tells her softly, "If anything else shows up, you let us know."

She saluted him, "Aye aye, Captain!"

He shoved her playfully and her laughter echoed in her small apartment.

"So, what do you and Dean do for Christmas?"

Sam hesitated a moment. Really, Christmas had never been a big deal to them. But ever since Dean came back from Hell and all the mess that followed after, the two brothers had been making a concerted effort to make special occasions more important. Sam would never say it out loud, but by making these memories, they were almost storing them up for a day when either Sam or Dean died.

Again.

Really, the more Sam thought about it, the two of them were pretty damn lucky. Dying so many times and returning to the land of the living? Practically a Christmas miracle.

He settled for a tight grin, "Nothing much. Ghosts don't take holidays."

Charlie winced, "Point taken."

He pulled her in for a quick hug, "Merry Christmas, Charlie. Stay out of trouble."

She smirked, "I make no promises."

Sam just chuckled.

* * *

Of course, no matter how much experience Dean may have under his belt, that doesn't mean his older brother is immune from trouble. Mistakes happen, even to the best hunters. And as the clock ticks and the minutes turn into hours and Sam still can't get through to Dean, that's when the youngest Winchester realizes that something has gone wrong.

Panic sets in, but luckily, training soon kicks in. He and Dean are both prepared for these kinds of situations. While Sam hopes that Dean has just gotten his signal knocked out by snowstorm—he really wants that to be the case—he knows that his brother's cellphone is the first step.

He easily tracks his brother's cellphone. All it takes is a few keystrokes. Dean's phone shows up, pinging on the map.

"Okay," Sam muttered, nodding his head, "Hang on, Dean."

* * *

The forest is one straight out of a perfect Christmas movie.

Tall, beautiful evergreens covered with fluffy snow. Stars twinkling above in a clear, dark sky. A gentle wind rustles the trees.

It's amazing.

But it's too quiet.

Sam's not stupid. Dean wouldn't just go off the radar to take a nice camping trip. Which means something got the drop on his brother. And if that's the case, then Sam needs to be on his guard.

He steps carefully into the snow, searching for a sign that Dean was even here, but the snow is fresh. Any evidence of Dean has long since been covered. Grimacing, Sam scans the trees, trying to figure out where to start his search.

"You won't find him." The soft voice, like tinkling bells, catches him off guard.

Sam spins around, gun ready to fire.

The woman who stands before him, flesh as pale as the snow that surrounds them. Her ebony hair tumbles down in ringlets and her cream nightgown moves in the wind.

"Who are you?" Sam growls, not lowering his gun an inch.

The woman, who can't be more than 20, just regards him with her dark gaze. A frown tugs on her peach lips.

"What are you?"

She leans down, her hand touching the snow. It glows under her touch, creating a bigger pile. She smirks at him, "I'm all that's left."

"Where is my brother?" Sam presses because it's obvious that she knows where Dean is and Sam will be damned if she doesn't tell him.

The woman steps closer to him. The gun presses up against her chest, but she is not afraid of it. She places an icy hand on his cheek.

"He will be with me," She whispers maliciously, "Just like you will be."

He jumps back just in time to avoid the dagger of ice that nearly plunged into his heart. He fires his gun, but the bullet simply goes right through her. She's a ghost, yes, but clearly a more powerful one that somehow got control over snow and ice. Sam racks his brain, trying to remember if he's come across this before in the library.

"Give me back my brother!" He roars, pulling out some holy water. He tosses it at her, but she lifts her hand and freezes it.

"I'm so lonely," She hisses, "And so cold. Why will no one stay with me?"

He needs to buy some time. He begins to chant a general banishing spell—it won't get rid of her for good, but it should give him enough time to figure out a plan—and judging by the way she begins to tremble, it's working.

But he makes the one mistake that John always warned them about—he gets cocky.

And before he can finish the incantation, there's an icicle rammed into his shoulder. The ice pierces through his skin and he hisses as he tries to break away, but the ice is stuck.

The woman smiles at him and whispers, "Don't worry. It will all be over soon."

But the jokes on her.

Somehow, through chattering teeth and the world spinning around him, Sam finishes the incantation. The woman flickers before him and then vanishes, snow swirling around her body used to be.

Blood drips on the snow, staining it crimson. Sam grits his teeth and pulls out the icicle. He steadies his breathing and tries to his shocked brain to focus. He needs to find Dean before the woman returns. Sam knows he won't survive round two with her. Finding Dean is his priority.

"Dean!" His voice echoes in the forest and desperation claws at him. There's so much ground to cover and Sam can feel himself fading.

But no, he can't give up. He needs to be strong. He can find his brother. He just needs to be smarter and figure it out.

That's when he notices the pile of snow to the left, beside a tree. Anyone could mistake it as just a normal accumulation of snow, but Sam knows better. He rushes over and begins to tug at the snow, wincing as his shoulder alights with pain.

Dean, unconscious and nearly blue, but breathing, lies beneath the snow.

"Dean?" He shakes his brother, but Dean's too far gone. He needs a hospital now.

Sam tugs Dean out from the snow, hissing as his shoulder burns. Blood drips down and drops on to the snow. The world around him blurs. Still, somehow, he manages to haul Dean up and slowly, but surely, Sam half walks, half drags them through the snow and Sam almost wants to cry tears of joy at the sight of the Impala.

Finally, they're going to catch a break.

"S'okay, Dean." Sam whispers, but his brother doesn't stir. Sam doesn't think he's well enough to drive but he has no choice.

"And where do you think you're going?" A voice growls.

Of course, leave it to their Winchester luck to kick in.

The woman practically glows as the snow swirls around her.

Looks like Sam has no choice, he has to end this here. Placing Dean up against the car, Sam faces off against the rogue spirit.

"You died here, right? And no one found you?" That's why she had power over the snow. She was destroyed by this element so she gained power over it.

"What would you know?"

"Show me where," Sam whispers, "And I'll help you. People will know," He adds softly, "Your family will know."

That causes her expression to melt into compassion. The snow falls to the ground and she nods.

"This way."

He follows her through the twist and turns of the forest before finally arriving in a clearing. He sees her physical form—an old set of bones, lying undisturbed for years—and he nods. He sprinkles salt on the bones before lighting a match. It takes a long time for the flames to get started, but soon, the bones are no more than ash.

"Thank you." She whispers, a smile on her lips. She fades away, the snow softly tumbling down to the ground.

With her finally gone, Sam turns to make his way back to the Impala, but his knees buckle. His body has finally reached its limit. He flops onto the snow, his strength leaving him.

The snow surrounds him, an icy blanket and his eyes fall shut.

Darkness.

* * *

The world he comes back to his warm, deliciously so. Soft, fluffy blankets cover him and his arm his patched up with careful bandages. Beeping comes from his side and he turns his head to spy the heart rate monitor.

Hospital.

"Easy."

Dean smiles at him, though his brother appears a bit worse for wear, with five o'clock shadow and red rimmed eyes.

"Dean, you're—"

"I'm good," Dean says and when Sam begins to protest, adds, "The doc looked me over. Just a touch of hypothermia. They got it sorted out."

Sam nods, relief surging through his veins.

"How did we get here?" Sam questions. The last thing he remembers is the snow and the ghost. Dean had been out for the count so who else could've helped.

That's when he notices the redhead sleeping soundly on the other side of his bed, her head resting uncomfortably on the side of his bed, a blanket tucked around her shoulders.

"Charlie?" Sam murmurs.

Dean's eyes twinkle, "Turns out you were supposed to check in with her. When you didn't, Charlie somehow tracked us down."

Sam chuckles, "She saved us."

"That girl is full of surprises."

"Yeah, well, you gave us a heart attack. You lost a lot of blood, Sam."

Sam waves it off, "I'm good."

But the darkness that lingers on Dean's face proves that it had been a close call.

"Oh, Sammy, Merry Christmas."

Sam glances around and sees a few twinkling lights that have been put up in his hospital room.

"We didn't miss it?"

Dean laughs, "Well, it's almost midnight, so that still counts."

"Can we get out of here?"

"Sam—"

"Let's go home, Dean," Sam insists, "Together."

"All right," Dean finally relents, "Let's get you out of here."

Sam beams.

* * *

In the end, they celebrate Christmas at 11:45pm with a quick glass of eggnog and a drowsy Charlie trying to stay awake long enough to toast with them. Is it the worst Christmas they've had? No.

In fact, if Sam had to think about it, sitting on the couch with his brother, a roaring fire warming the room and a glass of eggnog in his hand, things could've been a lot worse. They could've died tonight.

But they didn't.

And now, they could celebrate Christmas the only way they knew how—together.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _More updates coming soon. Please review if you have a second! Thanks!_


	5. Chapter 5: Sammy

_**Author's Note:**_ _Here we go, next chapter! I'm so pleased that you are all enjoying these stories. It's so much fun to write them!_

 _Our next prompt comes from_ _ **Hobbit-fan 01**_ _, who requested "a de-aged Sam with Demon Dean. Everything else is up to you. Surprise me." I hope you enjoy this chapter as much I had writing it. It's always nice to have some leeway with prompts. Set at the start of season 10!_ _ **Trigger warning: a small child gets hurt in this chapter. If that bothers you in any way, please do not read.**_

* * *

" _And so I'm offering this simple phrase_

 _To kids from one to ninety-two_

 _Although it's been said many times, many ways_

 _Merry Christmas to you."_

— _Nat King Cole, "The Christmas Song"_

* * *

Castiel isn't sure how it happens.

One second, Sam is by his side, discussing his latest plan to restore Dean's humanity and the next he's gone, vanished without a trace. Castiel likes to think he's above human emotions, but he's been around the Winchesters too long to be impartial. As soon as Sam disappears, dread forms in the pit of his stomach, worry surging through his vessel's veins.

Because Castiel knows something has gone horribly wrong.

He just hopes he can find Sam before it's too late.

* * *

This wasn't exactly what Crowley had in mind.

He glances at the witch he kidnapped, arching his eyebrow.

"You got the bloody spell wrong," Crowley hisses, pointing to the tiny, five-year-old staring up at the demon king with unusually big puppy dog eyes, "This isn't Moose."

"You asked for Sam Winchester," The witch retorts, folding her arms across her chest, "This is he."

"Sam Winchester is a man!" Crowley shouts, voice echoing in the warehouse he's set up camp, "This is a child!"

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs raggedly. He thought summoning Sam would help him with Dean, but apparently, the King of Hell can't even get that right these days. Now, he's got to find a way to return this kid before he gets arrested for kidnapping and really, Crowley isn't that nice, but for once, he needs some good karma in his favor. Especially with the Christmas season upon them. Normally, Crowley would delight in playing the Grinch, but he does like to think he has some standards and messing with a child really is beneath them.

"Crowley," A low voice rumbles and Dean stalks into the room, his eyes wild and unfocused, "Are we going or what?"

"Dean!" The five-year-old chirps, running over to the demon and throwing his tiny little arms around him.

Dean flinches at the contact, jerking away from the kid.

Those big, puppy dog eyes fill up with tears as chubby fingers reach out toward Dean.

The witch smirks, "I told you it was him."

"Who?" Dean hisses, backing away from the child, almost afraid of this five-year-old. It's kind of comedic, actually, if Crowley thinks about it. Who knew that Dean would terrified of a kid?

"Sam," Crowley explains, "But it's obviously not him."

"That's because this text your minions brought me is wrong," The witch grumbles, holding up the tattered, ancient spell book, "This has been translated wrong. You've got Sam, but you've got him at the wrong age."

Crowley blinks, stunned.

"So, what you're saying is that—"

"Dean, up, up!" Little Sam shouts, charging toward his older brother, jumping up toward Dean's arms.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Dean roars and Sam flinches.

"Dean!" Sam begins to sob, huge tears rolling down his cheeks as he wails.

Crowley sighs raggedly.

This is going to be one hell of a problem to sort out.

* * *

Luckily, he's not the King of Hell for nothing.

Within minutes, he's got little Sam, or Sammy as Crowley had taken to calling him, in the arms of a demon that mothered five kids of her own before selling her soul. The mothering instincts are still there and as she tosses Sammy in the air and chases him around, Crowley thinks that maybe he'll be able to pull this off.

"Let's just kill him," Dean mutters, twirling a knife around in his grip, "Kid can't fight back."

Crowley narrows his gaze. He's all about killing Sam, but he draws the line at killing kids. Besides, he'd hoped having Sam here would calm Dean, not rile him up more. No, the best bet is to return Sam back to his correct age and into the hands of Castiel.

"We're not killing a kid." Crowley hisses.

"You're weak, Crowley," Dean chuckles, a maniacal smile twisting up his lips, "Killing a kid can't be the worst thing you've ever done. Hey, I'll even do it for you." He gets up from his chair, only for Crowley to shove him back down.

"You will not harm this child, understood?" He projects all of his power in his voice, trying to sound as intimidating as he possibly can.

Dean rolls his eyes, "Fine. Whatever."

Crowley sighs and turn to the witch, "Anything?"

"I'm going to need to get more ingredients. This will be awhile."

"How long?" Crowley presses.

"By Christmas Eve." The witch replies.

Dean gawks, "But that's a week away!"

The witch shrugs, "Sorry, boys, but that's the best I can do."

Sammy wanders up to the table and tugs on Dean's jacket.

Glaring, Dean meets his gaze, "What do you want?"

"Play with me!" Sammy shouts, a huge grin on his lips, "Play cowboy! Ooh, or robbers!" Sammy slips his tiny hand within Dean's own and tugs him away from the table.

"Let go of me!" Dean snaps, but Crowley glares at him. He will not listen to Sammy's bawling again.

"Just humor him." Crowley orders.

"Whatever." Dean sighs.

With amazement, Crowley watches as Sammy leads his big brother on a fake bank robbery chase.

And what's more, it looks like Dean might even enjoy it.

* * *

"Santa, Santa!" Sammy sings, loudly and off-key as the kid skips through the empty warehouse. He holds a crude drawing of the jolly St. Nick in his hand, one that he shoves into Crowley's field of vision.

"What's this?" Crowley takes the drawing and tries to make sense of the scribbles.

"Me, Dean, you and Santa!" Sammy points to the different colored blobs and Crowley chuckles. Ruffling Sammy's hair, he can't help but smile. Sure, the Winchesters might be his greatest enemy, but damn it all if Sam wasn't the cutest kid ever.

"Sammy," Dean calls sharply and immediately Sammy scurries to his big brother's side, "You need to finish your juice."

"Juice!" Sammy exclaims, eagerly reaching for the cup.

"Taking care of him?" Crowley arches an eyebrow.

Dean smirks, "Just until he's big again. Then, I'll kill him."

Somehow, that fills Crowley with more dread than he anticipated.

* * *

"Lights, lights!" Sammy cheers as the string of Christmas lights goes up on the wall. Really, Crowley has lost his mind. He's letting demons—his demons—decorate for Christmas just to please the five-year-old self of his worst enemy. How did that even make sense?

"Easy, Sammy," Dean soothes, holding the kid in his arms and smiling softly at him, "You need to wait until they're put up."

"I wanna see them now!" Sammy shouts.

"Not now," Dean reprimands sternly, "Let's go see if Lydia has some hot chocolate for you. The lights should be done after that."

"Hot chocolate, yay!" Sammy screams and really, this whole thing should annoy Crowley, but he can't help but find it enduring.

* * *

Of course, good things can never last.

Their warehouse is invaded by rogue werewolves. Crowley curses himself for not being more prepared, for not doing enough reconnaissance, but as the smoke and dust settle after the fight, he finds himself most concerned for Sammy.

"Sammy!" Dean's voice howls and immediately, ice settles in Crowley's veins.

He rushes to the other room to see Dean cradling a bloody Sammy in his arms. The child is unconscious and deathly still. A gash is bleeding on his sides.

"Sammy, stay with me," Dean pleads, rocking him back and forth, "Open your eyes!"

But Crowley knows it's too late. The wound is too deep and the blood loss too extensive. Who knew that this would be how his greatest enemy would die? Not exactly the way Crowley pictured it.

Crowley reaches for Sammy, but Dean yanks him back, a savage growl rumbling in his chest, "Stay the fuck away from him!" Then, softly, to Sammy, "It's okay, I've got you, it's okay, Sammy."

But it's not okay.

It's not okay at all.

* * *

Castiel senses it the minute Sam dies.

It hits him, like being slammed into a car, a pain so sharp an acute. It makes the angel fall to his knees, crying out as the grief tears into him. Sam is gone, and Castiel knows it's all his fault.

"Sam."

His friend is gone.

Castiel has failed him.

But then, he feels it. A faint spark.

All hope isn't lost yet.

* * *

Crowley would never again curse out witches.

"Move your grip," She orders Dean and he looks about ready to snap at her when she continues, "I need to see the wound."

Reluctantly, Dean moves his hands, allowing the full extent of the gash to be seen.

The witch nods to herself, her hands glowing a golden yellow as she touches the wound. Slowly, the blood begins to vanish as the skin stiches itself up. Before even a minute has passed, it's like the injury never happened.

"Sammy?" Dean calls, urgently.

Big eyes fly open and a soft smile alights Sammy's face, "Dean."

Dean grips his baby brother and whispers, "Sammy, I will never leave you alone again."

Sammy just smiles.

* * *

Of course, it's not like Sam can stay this way forever.

"Turn him back?" Dean growls, "Why the hell would we do that? He powerless like this."

"He'll grow up eventually," Crowley insists, "Besides, it's a matter of time before Castiel finds us. And believe me, you don't want to see his reaction." They're just lucky the barriers have held up as long as they had.

"If he comes, I'll kill him." Dean mutters, as if killing an angel is that simple.

"We're demons, not babysitters," Crowley informs him, "We have to undo the spell."

Dean doesn't say anything, his eyes the picture of a dark storm on the sea. He gets up from his seat and picks up a sleeping Sammy, cradling him in his arms. He whispers something that Crowley can't quite hear and then he faces the Demon King.

"Where do you want him?"

Crowley just nods.

* * *

In the end, Castiel finds Sam on the side of a road, not far from the bunker.

"Sam! Are you well?" Castiel's hands roam over his friend, checking for any injury, "What happened?"

Sam, for his part, seems dazed, his gaze slightly unfocused. He shakes his head, "I don't really know. I . . . I hung up Christmas lights and drank hot cocoa with Dean?"

Castiel's brow furrows, "You did what?"

"I don't know," Sam dismisses, "Must've been a weird dream.

"Regardless, I am relieved to see you unharmed."

Sam smiles brightly at him and Castiel helps him up from the ground. When they're about to fly away, Sam's head whips around to a distant tree across the road.

"Dean?" He whispers, voice clogged.

Castiel follows his gaze but sees nothing more than the tree.

"Sam?"

Sam's gaze falls, "Let's go."

Castiel nods and they're away.

* * *

"You miss him." Crowley stated.

Dean shakes his head.

"You've been moping for a week."

"Shut up," Dean hisses, "I will kill Sam."

But Crowley had seen the way Dean had held his little brother. Deep down, the devoted big brother was still in there. Crowley had no doubts that Dean's days as a demon were numbered. Because the Winchester's love for each other? That went deeper than anything. Not Hell or Heaven could stop it.

And soon, it would be Dean's undoing.

But for now, Crowley still has havoc to wreak. He'll leave Dean to his moping.

And if he sees Dean holding the picture that Sammy drew, he won't say anything.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I loved writing this chapter! Please review if you have a second. Thanks!_


	6. Chapter 6: Family

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm so glad that little Sam was such a hit! I rarely write de-aged Sam for fear that I'll screw it up, but I'm happy that you all enjoyed it._

 _Up next,_ _ **Hero of words**_ _prompted "My prompt: Christmas during season 7 where Sam is trying to buy presents. Your choice of how he gets hurt. Dean (and Bobby/Jody too if you want) look after him and help him deal with his memories of the cage." I love writing about Sam and his trauma with the Cage. Thanks for this prompt!_ _ **Trigger warning: attempted suicide. If this bothers you, do not read.**_

* * *

" _I don't wanna talk_

 _I'm sick of all this talking_

 _A broken heart all wrapped up in a box_

 _There's tear drops in my stocking."_

— _Relient K "I Hate Christmas Parties"_

* * *

Jody gets the call at about 1:52pm.

Before the call, it's been a pretty slow day. As Sheriff, she doesn't really need to go out on regular patrols and had elected to stay behind at the station, double checking some of the paperwork filled out by her rookies. It's not that Jody thinks she's too important to leave—that's not the case at all—it's just that Sioux Falls is a relatively quiet town.

Well, she amends mentally, aside from the monsters that lurk in the dark. But she had Bobby, Sam and Dean to deal with all that. And in return, she used what little power she had to try and keep the three of them out of legal trouble. That's the nice thing about small towns—she's respected here and her word means something.

Which is perfect because if she's going to get Sam out of this jam, she'll need all the respect she can get.

"Sheriff," Daniels bows his head as she enters the broken storefront, "We called as soon we got him calmed down."

She smiles gratefully at the veteran of five years and then grimaces at the blood on the shattered glass. She kneels down and shakes her head, "What happened?"

"Uh, about precisely twenty minutes ago," Robertson, the newbie, just a few weeks out of boot camp recites, voice hesitant, "He entered the store. Shop owner said he seemed to be sort of checked out, but not dangerous," Robertson grimaces, "She says he just snapped. Threw merchandise through the window and then picked up some of the shattered glass. She's not pressing charges though."

Hence the blood, Jody figures. She lets her gaze drift to Mrs. Moore, a kindly older woman who ran the local antique shop. Mrs. Moore has her arms wrapped around herself protectively and while she seems a bit shaken, she doesn't seem too upset.

"Did he hurt her?"

"No, ma'am," Robertson replies, "But he did do a number on his wrists. Doc said a few minutes later, he'd be gone."

"He's waiting for you at Sioux General," Daniels informs her, "But he's been placed on a 5150. Gonna be 24 hours before you can get him out."

Jody winces. The last thing Sam needs is to be under a mental observation, but her boys were just following protocol. They didn't know that Sam wasn't struggling not from mental illness, but from the aftereffects of Hell.

"Uh, Sheriff?" Robertson starts, "How do you know him?"

She doesn't hesitate before replying, "He's practically my son." Her piece said she crosses over to Mrs. Moore. Placing a comforting hand on the older woman's shoulder, Jody begins, "You all right, Mrs. Moore?"

Mrs. Moore nods, "Oh, yes, dear. He didn't hurt me. But I was worried about him," She gestures to the broken glass and ruined merchandise, "Though it will be a hassle to get this all straightened up."

Jody nods sympathetically, "I'd be happy to help you with anything you need."

Mrs. Moore smiles, "Jody, I would appreciate that."

It is almost Christmas after all. Jody just wishes that it wasn't shaping up to be such a bad one for Sam.

* * *

After leaving her squad to deal with the rest of the details, Jody heads to the hospital. She meets with Sam's attending, Dr. Anderson and manages to sweet talk her way into seeing Sam. While he won't be released until his 24 hours are up—Dr. Anderson would not budge on that—at least she can see him for herself.

Sam's huddled in a corner of the padded room, his knees drawn up to his chest and his face buried in his hands.

"He's been like this ever since he came in," Dr. Anderson mutters, shaking his head, "He won't say anything to me though."

Jody nods, trying to keep the worry from showing on her face. She knew that Sam sometimes suffered bad spells—Dean and Bobby had mentioned it multiple times—but this is the first time she's actually witnessing it firsthand. She wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and tell him that everything is going to be okay.

But Jody knows it's not that simple. Nothing ever is with the Winchesters.

"I can only give you a few minutes, Jody," The doctor warns her, "This really goes against protocol."

"A few minutes is enough," Jody informs him, "Thanks, Matt."

Dr. Mill nods and shuts the door behind her.

"Sam?" She takes a slow step towards him, but the youngest Winchester doesn't even look up. The bandages around his wrist cause her stomach to plummet. She almost lost him tonight. She could've been responding to a totally different type of call if Mrs. Moore hadn't called for help when she did.

Sam rocks back and forth, muttering, "Not real, not real, not real."

"Sam, it's me," She kneels beside him, slowly inching her way close to him, "Can you hear me?"

He blinks at her, his gaze cloudy, "Jody?"

"Hey, kiddo," She beams, "Rough day, huh?"

But Sam shakes his head and returns to rocking, "You're not real!"

"Sam," She risks placing a hand on his shoulder, relieved when he doesn't shudder at the contact, "I'm real. You're not there, okay? Dean got you out."

She doesn't know much about what happened to Sam. Bobby had explained tensely and quickly one night that Sam had gone to Hell but the mental scars still consumed him. Now, the youngest Winchester would go through moments when he would see Lucifer and think he was still back in Hell. To be honest, Jody found the whole thing a bit hard to swallow, but she believed the gruff hunter. There may be things beyond her comprehension but that didn't mean she wouldn't take care of her boys.

"Dean's gone," Sam whispers, "Dean's out."

Dr. Anderson sticks his head inside, "Time's up, Sheriff."

Jody just frowns.

* * *

 _"And she's not pressing charges?"_ Bobby questions.

Jody paces the length of the hospital corridor, frustrated that there's nothing more she can do for Sam right now.

"No," Jody replies, "But I promised to help her clean up her store."

 _"We'll all help,"_ Bobby insists, and then he lowers his voice, _"How is he?"_

Jody runs a hand through her hair, "Not good, Bobby. He thinks he's back in there."

 _"Balls,"_ Bobby curses, _"Dean is on his way back from a hunt a state over. Soonest he can get here is tomorrow afternoon. And I went a couple hours up north to get some new books. Jody, could you—?"_

She's surprised he even has to ask. He knows she cares for these boys like they were own.

"I've got him, Bobby."

Bobby sighs and you can practically picture his smile, _"Thanks, Jody. We owe you."_

She shakes her head. They owe her nothing. They'd have given her a family—someone to care about. If she really thought about, she is the one in their debt.

But for now, there is nothing to do but wait.

* * *

"The suicide attempt has me a bit worried," Dr. Anderson tells her that night before leaves at the end of his shift, "Maybe some medication would help—"

"Matt, you've just got to trust me," She lowers her voice, "Sam's going through something you would never understand. He'll be safe with me."

Matt sighs, "Jody, you know how I hate to break protocol—"

"Matt—"

He holds up a hand to silence her, "But since it's Christmas and all that, I suppose I can do it just this once. But I mean it Jody, if he gets worse, you bring him back. You can't mess around with something like this."

Jody hugs him tightly, so grateful that Sam won't have to spend another minute that in that cold, empty room.

"Thank you," She whispers, "Thank you so much."

When they break apart, Dr. Anderson nods, "Let me get the discharge papers ready."

Jody grins.

* * *

Sam's a bit more lucid the next time she sees him.

"Jody," He greets softly, head bowed in embarrassment, "I'm sorry about—"

She waves him off, "Sam, don't worry about it. Let's get you back home, okay?"

He perks up a bit at that, a timid smile spreading on his lips, "Sounds good."

As she leads him to the squad car, she catches his gaze fixed on something in the distance. She follows it, but finds nothing but a tree. Still, Sam clutches his hands together and Jody figures that he must be seeing something. Frowning, she taps his shoulder and Sam's head jerks over to her gaze.

"Let's go, Sam."

He nods and allows himself to be guided to the car.

* * *

"Sammy."

Dean wraps his arms around his baby brother, relief evident in both the brothers' gazes.

It always warms Jody's heart to see how loving the two Winchester brothers were with each other. Both of them would lay down their lives for each other, without hesitation. They cared for each other that much and she'd seen it firsthand. She almost felt like she was intruding, watching their reunion, until Dean's eyes met hers.

"Thanks, Jody," He tells her gruffly, and she's about to protest when he continues, "Don't say it's nothing. We know it's not. You pulled some strings for us. Thanks."

His piece said, Dean turns back to his brother, wrapping an arm around Sam's shoulders and leading him upstairs, his quiet voice reassuring Sam that things will be okay now.

And damn it all if Jody doesn't believe it.

There is nothing that Dean can't do when it came to Sam. There are no limits to Dean's love for his brother. If anyone can help Sam conquer the demons that still plagued Sam, it's Dean.

"You taking off?" Bobby's gruff voice surprises her and she's lucky that she didn't almost jump.

"Got some paperwork to do." It's not a complete lie. There are still a few loose ends that she needs to tie up.

Bobby nods at her, a tired grin on his lips and it makes her a bit wistful. If things were different, maybe they could be something more. But for now, at least in the public's eyes, he's the drunk salvage yard owner and she's the hardnosed Sheriff.

"Merry Christmas, Jody."

She pauses at the door, turning back to say, "Merry Christmas, Bobby."

And then she's out into the cold air.

* * *

"Sheriff?" Jody glances up from the mountain of paperwork to see Sharon, the station's dispatcher at her door. Sharon points behind her, "You've got a visitor. Shall I send him in?"

Jody isn't expecting anyone today. Still, half of the time, the public dropped in unexpectedly, wanting to complain about unfair parking tickets or how the government should mind their own business. Jody usually just tried to grin and bear it, but she was tired today. She'd pulled an all-nighter helping on a deadly crash and she wanted nothing more than to lay her head on her desk and take a quick nap.

"Sure." She murmurs, rubbing her eyes.

Sharon turns behind her, "This way."

"Hi Jody." Sam stands in her doorway and immediately, Jody is on her feet, practically throwing her arms around the youngest Winchester in a hug.

Sharon just smiles and closes Jody's office door behind her.

Jody breaks off the hug and takes a look at Sam. He seems a bit perkier, definitely better than the last time she saw him, "How are you doing?"

"Okay," Sam nods, "I wanted to thank you for—"

"Don't even mention it," She interjects, "Lord knows you and Bobby have bailed me out enough times. It's the least I can do."

He shifts awkwardly and she waits for whatever is on his mind to be spoken. Finally, he meets her gaze, "I was buying Christmas gifts."

Jody sits down at her desk and motions for Sam to take a seat across from her.

"And Lucifer was there. He made it seem like the gifts were on fire so I threw them out the window and . . ." His voice trails off and a shudder runs through his body.

Jody grimaces, "And?"

"I thought I was in Hell," Sam whispers, "And I just wanted to get out so I picked up the glass and I—" His voice stops abruptly and he glances at the floor, ashamed, "I'm sorry, Jody."

"Sam, it's not your fault."

Sam shakes his head, "I caused you so much trouble—"

She chuckles at him, "You are like a broken record sometimes. Sam, I said it was fine. And I wouldn't lie to you, okay?"

Sam hesitantly nods and then slides a small, wrapped present across the table.

"Sam?"

"Open it."

She hasn't received a Christmas gift in years. She's almost forgotten the wonder and excitement that comes whenever someone hands you a present. Carefully, she unwraps the red wrapping paper and opens up the gift. A small, silver bracelet lined with different colored gems shines up at her.

"It's a protection bracelet," Sam explains softly, "Wear it and it should help keep you safe, not just from the supernatural, but everything."

Jody feels the tears rolls down her cheeks and before Sam can even ask if she's okay, she manages to say, "Thank you, Sam."

Sam beams.

* * *

In the end, the boys and Bobby head back on the road and Jody stays behind. But wearing the bracelet that Sam gave her, she can't help but feel like she's connected to them still, no matter how many miles are between them.

She's getting soft, she thinks.

"Sheriff?" Sharon calls out, "There's an accident on the interstate. Davidson is requesting back up."

Jody grabs her keys off the desk, "I'm on my way."

And the work continues, for all of them.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _For some reason, this really became Jody's story, which I enjoyed writing. I know it's a little light on Dean, but whenever I went back to change things, Jody still came out stronger. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	7. Chapter 7: Truth

_**Author's Note:**_ _Apologies for the confusion last chapter regarding the last name of the Doctor. I hadn't realized that I'd given him the same last name as Jody. I have gone back and changed it._

 _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **emelie0204**_ _, who requested, "Could I get Sam with his friends and Jess being mugged during spending time at a bar for the holidays. Sam fights back with skills and his friends are amazed and impressed. Somehow (however you like) Sam gets hurt. Jess and his friends end up calling Dean, and they end up meeting him and spending Christmas with him." I'm such a sucker for Sam/Jess! Thanks for this prompt. It's an interesting one!_

* * *

" _This is my winter song_

 _December never felt so wrong_

 _Because you're not where you belong_

 _Inside my arms."_

— _Sara Bareilles, "Winter Song"_

* * *

Jessica believes in the magic of Christmas.

Call it cheesy or sappy, but she loves the way the cold winter air chills her as she drinks hot chocolate. She enjoys binging on Hallmark movies where happy families gather around a giant Christmas tree, all grins on their lips. She loves walking around town and seeing the twinkling, multi-colored lights sparkling on the buildings.

In short, Jessica Moore loves this time of year.

And yet, for some horrible reason, she always has to get through the mess that is finals in order to get to the hot chocolate drinking, Hallmark movie binging part of her life.

"I'm so fucking glad that's over," Brady slams his beer glass down with a bit too much force, but Jessica quickly nods her head in agreement. Brady clasps a hand on Sam's shoulder, beaming, "Though, I didn't have to take Law 405—"

Sam rolls his eyes, though a grin is tugging on his lips, "That's not even the name of my class—"

Jessica lifts up her own beer, beaming, "Let's just toast then. To surviving finals!"

Brady clicks his glass with hers, followed by Sam.

The bar they've chosen is close to Stanford and decked out with lights and a plastic Christmas tree with glittering ornaments. Upbeat Christmas music blares and Jessica suppresses the urge to belt out and sing. After a few more drinks, maybe she would consider singing a verse or two of "Last Christmas" but not now.

It's her second Christmas with Sam, the first with them living together. She's a bit nervous about making things good for him—what little he had mentioned about his own Christmases with his family had been brief and laced with some grief. She doesn't want to pry, but she can't help but wonder what Sam's life was like before he came to Stanford. Brady had known him since freshman year and even he had about as much info as she did.

She knows of course, that Sam isn't close to his family. His father had pretty much disowned him after he was accepted into Stanford and his brother . . . well, Sam never really talked about him. Though she knew he did talk to him, though the calls were infrequent and always tense. But really, that's all she knows about her boyfriend. Not that she didn't have her own secrets, but as they traversed this relationship together, she believed that he would have opened up more to her by now.

He hadn't.

"Brady." Trish Anderson waved from across the bar, her eyes batting and her lips in a seductive pout.

"Go on," Sam waves him off and Brady smirks before practically bounding over to the attractive sorority sister. Sam leans in to her, chuckling, "He's hopeless."

Jessica beams, grabbing Sam's hand within her own, holding it tight, "He's just not as lucky as you."

Sam presses a kiss to her lips and she closes her eyes, savoring the moment.

If you had asked her a few years ago if she pictured her life turning out like this, she would've laughed. Back then, she'd been depressed and lonely, off on her own without her parents or her best friends. Yet, somehow, she had thrived and now, three years later, she didn't feel alone.

When they break off the kiss, Jessica gets up, "I'm gonna get some food. You want something?"

"Nah, I'm good."

She nods and strides over to the bar.

"Hey, gorgeous."

She can't help but scrunch up her nose in disgust at the slightly slurred voice coming from behind her. She ignores it and places an order for pizza and then goes to move to her booth when the guy blocks her path.

"What's your hurry?" His eyes narrow at her and judging from his clothes, he's one of those frat boys with money who think they're entitled to whatever they want.

"Not interested," She replies curtly, stepping around him. He grabs her arm, jerking her to a stop. She lowers her voice, "Let go."

"You shouldn't be such a bitch." He tells her, a smirk on his lips.

"And you should get your ears checked," Sam slides up behind her, almost startling her. How could he be so quiet? Still, she's relieved when he forces the other guy to let her go and then steps in front of her, effectively shielding her, "She said she wasn't interested."

"What?" The frat boy challenges, "You her boyfriend?"

Sam nods.

"Fuck you!" Frat boy hisses, lunging for her.

What happens next complete astounds her. One second, she's sure Sam is about to be slugged in the face and the next, her boyfriend has frat boy pinned to the ground, his arms twisted painfully behind his back. And the murderous look on Sam's face . . . she's never seen it before and it sends a shiver down her spine.

"Stay the hell away from her," Sam states, eerily calm, "Or next time, I won't be so nice." He releases the frat boy and then takes Jessica by the hand and outside the bar. He morphs back into the Sam she knows, complete with giant, worried puppy dog eyes, "Jess, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She feels a bit dazed to be honest, but as Sam wraps his arms around her, she also feels loved.

But a lingering question remains: where the hell had Sam learned to do that?

* * *

Of course, Jess shouldn't be surprised that the frat boy has friends.

Friends that ambush her, Sam and Brady when they leave the bar.

"You mess with one of us," The frat boy roars, "You mess with all of us!"

Jess pulls out her pepper spray and Brady glances around, looking for help, but he's a bit too drunk to do anything other than sway. Sam; however, he's once again eerily calm, despite the fact that the odds were currently not in their favor.

"Jess," Sam steps toward the six guys, his voice as hard as steel, "Take Brady and go inside."

"But Sam—"

"I've got this." He assures her and then before she can protest further, he slugs one of the frat boys across the face. With a skilled grace that only a fighter could possess, he weaves between them, throwing punches and dodging blows.

Jess feels rooted to her spot, unable to tear her gaze away from him and his impressive feats. He's like a superhero and she feels like she's seeing something that she was never supposed to lay eyes on.

"Holy shit," Brady whispers, "Sam's Batman!"

Jessica can't help but agree.

"Bastard!" One of the guys manages a blow, straight into Sam's ribs.

Sam doubles over and Jessica's breath freezes as she waits for him to stand once more.

The fight ends quickly after that.

Sam, maybe even more enraged, manages to knock out the frat boys. He turns back toward her, staggering.

"Sam?"

He smiles once more at her before he gracelessly tumbles to the ground.

"Sam!"

* * *

At the hospital, Brady sobers up.

Jessica paces the length of the hospital corridor, her hands constantly wringing her sleeves. She barely remembers the blur that was the ride to the hospital. All she knows is that Sam is somewhere, being looked at and she doesn't know what is wrong.

"Jess?" Brady glances up at her, his coffee cup clutched in his grasp. He must be nursing his hang over, but she's glad that he's here. Brady bites his lower lip nervously, "Jess, I called Sam's brother."

"What?"

Brady sighs, "He should know."

Jessica nods. It makes sense, but she's not sure how Sam would handle it. Sure, she and Brady had Dean's number for emergencies, but Sam made it clear that his family wasn't to be called ever.

It's been two hours since they got here and Jess just wants someone to tell her what's going on.

The doors to the hospital slam open and Jess' head darts around. She recognizes the figure in the worn jeans and the leather jacket from some carefully guarded pictures in Sam's journal.

"Dean?"

The eldest Winchester meets her gaze, his lips set in a grim line.

"Where is he?"

She points to the nurse's desk and the next thing she knows, Dean is talking to the nurses and getting shown to Sam's room.

Jess feels a bit cheated, to be honest. Then again, in the eyes of the hospital, she's not family.

At least, not yet.

* * *

Jess finally sends Brady home at about 7am, with the promise to call him when she finds something out. Dean's been in Sam's room for a few hours but she's still trapped out in the lobby. Well, she's going to fix all that.

A confident smile on her lips, she strolls up to the nurse's desk where a new nurse greets her.

"I'm looking for my husband," Jess lies, "Sam Winchester."

She doesn't even feel a bit guilty as the nurse directs her to Sam's room.

* * *

She finds Sam asleep, an oxygen tube under his nose. She grabs his hand within hers and presses a kiss to his forehead as she takes a seat next to him.

"So," Dean stands in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee, "Was wondering how long it would take you to get here."

She glares at him, "What is your problem?"

"Nothing." Dean replies gruffly, but Jess doesn't buy it. Still, she's got bigger fish to fry.

"What's wrong with him?"

"A few broken ribs," Dean answers softly, "But his lungs sounded a bit weird so they wanted to keep him for observation."

Jess frowns.

Dean must notice this for he adds, "Sam will be fine. He's tough."

Jess huffs out a laugh, "I know. I saw him wipe the floor with those losers. He was like something else."

"Glad to see he hasn't gotten rusty." Dean murmurs, ruffling Sam's hair.

They sit together in silence for a bit, both keeping vigil for what they considered most dear. Finally, Jess looks him over—really sees him—and she forces herself to say, "I'm glad you came."

Dean blinks, "You thought I wouldn't?"

"No," She tells him quickly, but in truth, she wasn't sure and she tacks on, "It's just that Sam doesn't say much about you and—"

Dean sighs softly, "Yeah, well, Sammy and I are on different pages about a few things," His gaze narrows, "But I'll always come for him. Always."

The sincerity and strength in his vow rings true. And before she can even stop herself, she asks him, "How would you like to spend Christmas with us?"

She's not sure if Sam will approve or not, but she doesn't want to put a wedge between the two of them. If she can help close the gap between the two brothers, then she should.

Dean beams, "That would be great. Thanks."

And that settles that.

* * *

It amazes her how much Dean fusses over Sam.

The eldest Winchester practically hovers around Sam, giving his pain pills, making sure that he's eating and resting—really, Jess actually feels kind of useless, just standing in their small townhouse and watching the skilled older brother work his magic.

When she finally gets a moment alone with Sam, she can't help but notice how relaxed he is, how happy he seems. Maybe this is what he's needed all along, for his big brother to make an appearance.

"You're okay with Dean being here?" She questions softly as he wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

"Yeah," He whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple, "Jess, I missed him." It's a rare admission from her usually guarded boyfriend.

"I think he missed you too."

Sam shakes his head, "It's just, there's so much more that can't just be fixed by—"

"Hey," She grips his hand within her own, "Just focus on one step at a time. Dean's here. You're happy. Let's just call that a win."

But really, for Jess, his smile is reward enough for her.

* * *

Jess lets the two brothers have their goodbye in peace.

Christmas has come and gone. She's relieved to see Sam has recovered from his injury, but she's also relieved to see him so happy. Really, she thinks Sam's injury might've been a blessing in disguise. And maybe that gap between them doesn't seem so large anymore. Maybe Sam would feel more comfortable with having Dean over or telling her more about his mysterious older brother.

But for now, watching Sam and Dean embrace each other outside her window, Jess can't help but grin.

Because Sam finally looks at peace for the first time in a long time.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	8. Chapter 8: Monster

_**Author's Note:**_ _As always, thank you so much for your kind words. My apologies for the delay in-between chapters. There was a family medical emergency that I had to handle. Luckily, everything is okay now._

 _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Jeanny**_ _, who requested "My prompt: a "family" of monsters captures Sam and trusses him up to carve as the Thanksgiving "turkey" for their feast (like a traditional sit-down dinner) and Dean of course must rescue." This is a really original idea! Thanks for submitting it. Please enjoy! Let's set this in season two._

* * *

" _There's a happy feeling_

 _Nothing in the world can buy_

 _When they pass around the coffee_

 _And the pumpkin pie."_

— _Jo Dee Messina, "Sleigh Ride"_

* * *

Laura looks forward to this day every single year.

Her mother smiles down at her from the kitchen, grinning brightly as she boils the potatoes.

"Your dad should be back with the main course," Mother tells her softly, "Why don't you go check on him?"

Laura nods and then turns to leave the kitchen.

It's odd, she knows, for creatures like them to be together like this. Living in a house, on a street, in some rural human town. Sure, they know their neighbors, but they live on a farm, removed from many of them. To the outside world, if they knew, they would call the monsters.

To Laura, she feels that they're family.

She's been alive for hundreds of years, yet, for her kind, she's still quite young. Assuming the form of a fourteen-year-old girl feels natural to her. When she found others of her kind who wished to live together, she jumped on the opportunity.

Together, they're safer, sure, but the love between them—that's real.

"Laura?" Her father calls out.

"Here, Dad!" She replies, quickly rounding the corner to the garage. There's a woolen brown sack on the ground, a slumped over figure peeking out from the open bag.

Her father gestures to the chair, "Bring that here."

Laura nods and pushes the chair over, "Who is he?"

Her father snarls, fangs descending, "A hunter."

Ice settles in Laura's veins. She knows about the mortals who hide in the shadows, striking out at those they deemed dangerous. Sure, in one way, hunters were just defending their kind, but Laura has to eat to survive. While her prey may be a bit unusual, shouldn't she have the chance to live?

The hunter, with his floppy brown hair, is still unconscious, slumped over in the chair, restraints holding him into place. Father must have hit him pretty hard, yet she can spy no bruises on his face or his head.

"Where did you find him?" Laura questions softly.

Her father narrows his gaze, "Down the road. He was at the Millers. Asking questions."

"We have to move." They've done this a few times—left their home and their belongings, changed their names and fled across the country to start a new life. They rarely fight hunters, fearing their retaliation, but clearly, finding one so close meant that they were in danger. Killing this one would at least buy them some time to stay alive.

"Was there another?" Hunters usually hunter in pairs, like a pack.

Her father sighs, "Maybe. I just grabbed this one." He runs a hand through his black hair, "I'll tell your mother."

Laura nods.

She knows this hunter needs to die to keep her family safe. But sometimes, she wonders if it's worth it. Couldn't they survive on animals? Sure, they wouldn't be as strong as they were now, but if it let them stay put—

"Laura." Her father puts a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Coming."

She doesn't look back when she steps out of the room.

* * *

That night, while her parents are discussing where to go in hushed voices, she sneaks down the stairs and back into the garage.

The hunter's eyes fly open, warm chocolate orbs flashing with terror, then defiance as he meets her gaze.

"You." He hisses, voice low and threatening.

She isn't scared though. This man would kill her family without a second, without a thought and why? Because they killed to survive? They had every right to live.

She inclines her head ever so slightly, "Hunter."

Her response seems to take him off-guard. He eyes her oddly.

"I can speak. Many of my kind can."

"And just what is your kind?" The hunter sneers.

She glares, "You should know. You were hunting us."

He huffs out a laugh, "We were hunting a werewolf. You're not that."

"No."

But her brain immediately latches on to the key word, "we".

"Your partner . . ."

The hunter smiles confidently, "He'll come for me."

She doesn't know why she stays after that, why she doesn't run away, but she simply stares him down.

"We aren't the monsters you think we are," She murmurs, "What we do, we do to survive."

She's seen too many of her kind end up as bloody corpses, rotting in ditches or loose graves. She's lost those she's cared about and wandered the world alone. This family . . . this is all she has.

And she will kill to protect it.

* * *

"The hunter has a partner?" Father echoes.

Her mother grabs her hand within hers and squeezes it, "Why would you speak to him? He could've killed you!"

"We need to kill him now. Then, leave." Father growls.

"Have dinner still?" Mother questions, worry creasing her brow, "Is that wise?"

"We're a family," Father states confidently, "And it's Thanksgiving. We deserve a holiday."

Laura wonders if it will be their last one.

* * *

While her mother finishes prepping the meal, Laura sets the table with their flowery porcelain china. She focuses on the folding the napkins correctly, on making sure everything is in its correct place. This will be the last feast in this home and though she's sad, part of her wishes they could just stand and fight. Let the hunter's partner come. Let them fight for what they want to protect.

But she knows that's a death wish. They rarely eat humans anymore, making them weaker than others of their kind. This one feast is what sustains them through the year. Without it, they would waste away.

The hunter has to die.

Still, once the table is set, she finds herself sneaking back down to where the hunter is tied up.

"Why do you kill us?" The question escapes her lips before she can stop it. She's seen hunters before, ruthless humans with nothing but hate in their eyes, mowing down everything in sight.

The hunter huffs out a laugh, "Why are you going to kill me?"

She blinks a bit, "Because we must survive."

"Same here." The hunter retorts.

It makes sense, she supposes. The humans have a right to fight back, but there is so many more of them than their own kind. Surely, the hunters could let some of them slip away.

"What is your name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I am Laura." She greets quietly.

"Sam."

"Sam," She nods, untying the ropes, "Go."

There's a bang upstairs and Laura freezes.

"Sammy!" A voice shouts, sharp and commanding and instantly, Laura knows it's all over.

There's a scuffle upstairs, objects falling and bodies falling and before she knows it, it's quiet once more.

"Sammy! Can you hear me?"

Laura knows she's going to die. Sam's partner will kill her and then it will all be over. Her family is gone and she's alone in the world once more.

"This way," Sam motions for her to hide behind the freezer and she gawks at him, "Hurry!"

Footsteps creak at the stairs and quickly, Laura throws herself behind the freezer.

"Sammy." The hunter's partner throws his arms around Sam, utter relief evident on his face. Then, breaking off the hug, his eyes scan over Sam, "You okay?"

"My head hurts a bit, but—"

"We should get that checked out—"

"Dean, no, I'm fine—"

Dean insists, "Sammy, you've been gone for two days. We don't even know what these things are or what they did to you." Dean's gaze darkens, "Other than planning to eat you. Bastards had a whole Thanksgiving dinner set up."

Sam's voice is unsteadied, "They're dead?"

"Yeah."

Laura's heart cracks, the fragments splintering into a million pieces.

"Let's get out of here and get you checked out," Dean wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, smiling softly, "Okay?"

Laura hides there until the rumble of the car fades away.

When she gets out and sees the mangled bodies of her mother and her father, she doesn't cry. She knew it would one day come to this. She will get stronger and then she will find a new family and if hunters come again, they will run away.

Or maybe they will fight.

Laura doesn't know. Right now, she needs to start over.

She burns the house, steals a car and drives away, never looking back once.

* * *

Sam has a gnarly concussion and is admitted overnight. Still, he doesn't think that is what is really causing his headache.

"Sammy?" Dean sits at his bedside, concern knitting his brow, "You good?"

"What were they?" Sam questions.

Dean shrugs, "Don't know. They looked like you and me, but they didn't bleed. Rock salt worked on them though. Gonna have to give Bobby a call, see what he thinks."

Sam nods, but the frightened eyes of that girl—Laura—haunts his mind.

 _Because we must survive._

Sam, of course, never would've willingly be eaten. But he realizes that there are shades of grey when it comes to the supernatural. It's not as black and white as Dean makes it. He let her go and he wonders if he should've stopped her. Dean would have.

But there had been something in her eyes, some spark of hope . . .

"Sam?"

"It's nothing." Sam mutters softly, forcing a smile on to his lips.

But deep down, he wonders, did he make the right choice?

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I liked the idea of having the Winchesters being the things that go bump in the night. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	9. Chapter 9: Visions

_**Author's Note:**_ _Going to be picking up the pace since we're getting so close to Christmas. Never fear though, I will keep going after Christmas._

 _The next prompt comes from_ _ **TotallyChic**_ _who requested, "I like the stories where Dean is the one that hurts Sam, either by accident or he's possessed. I'd love to see another one of those. How Dean hurts him is up to you, and later Sam convinces a guilty Dean it's not his fault. I'd love to see a Christmas version." Since I got another prompt very similar to this, I'm going to go the possessed route to make this story different. Let's set this in season two. Please enjoy! Thanks for the fun prompt!_

* * *

" _I can't figure you out_

 _Is this what Christmas is all about?_

 _'Cause it's a broken heart_

 _That you're giving me."_

— _Relient K, "I Hate Christmas Parties"_

* * *

Sam is never quite prepared for the visions.

Sure, you would think after the mess that was Max, he'd be used to the searing pain, like a jackhammer slamming into the side of his skull. The way his lungs would tighten as the world that he knew dimmed around him, replaced by a gruesome reality that he could prevent—if he acted fast enough.

Even now, during the usually joyful season of Christmas, he's not safe from whatever defective gene allows the visions to filter through. One second, he's drinking an overpriced, but delicious Starbucks gingerbread latte and the next, he's standing in a shabbily decorated motel room.

"Dean?" His own voice sounds faint to his ears. He has no control over the visions, no way to make them clearer.

His brother, a grim smile on his lips, turns around, a shotgun in his grip.

"Dean, this isn't you." Sam backs up, hitting the wall behind him.

"It's nothing personal, Sammy," Dean blocks the only escape route and as he inches closer, dread settles in the pit of Sam's stomach. Dean lifts the barrel of the shotgun, smiling twisting even more. Then, as the shotgun touches Sam's chest, the smile fades, replaced by an expression of almost regret. Dean sighs, "Trust me. I'm saving the world right now."

Bang.

Pain. Searing pain and he feels himself falling back to—

"Sammy!"

Reality. His reality, anyways.

His brother's hands are gripping Sam's shoulders; his emerald eyes frantically searching his little brother's body for some sign of injury.

But there is none. At least, not now.

"Sam, you with me?"

They're outside the Starbucks now. Dean must've pulled him out before any concerned bystanders got the idea to call for an ambulance. Dean kneels beside Sam, waiting for whatever information Sam can disclose.

"I'm fine." Sam lies. His heart is still pounding a mile a minute and there's phantom pain on his chest, but it's the truth for now.

"What did you see?" Dean questions softly, no judgement in his voice, just concern. When this whole thing started, Sam had worried about what Dean would think about his visions. It was obvious that the visions were supernatural and in their world—according to their father's creed—anything supernatural was to be destroyed. Sam had waited for the inevitable freak-out, for Dean to disown him and cast him out.

That never happened.

Dean accepted the visions and Sam. Maybe it had been foolish to think, even for a second, that Dean would turn on him.

"Sammy?"

He should tell the truth. It's obvious that Dean is not quite himself in the vision. Could he be possessed or—?

"Ouch." He winces and pinches the bridge of his nose as pain lances through his mind.

"Okay, c'mon," Dean gently pulls him off the grass and helps him stand, "Let's get you back to the room."

Sam freezes.

The room—the one in his vision—it's the same one that they're staying in now. Dean decorated it for Christmas with twinkling lights and even a small, lopsided tree.

They can't go back.

"No!"

Dean arches an eyebrow, "Dude, no offense, you look like you're about to face plant right here—"

"I know, but I just—" His eyes glance around, searching for some sort of lifeline and he spies it, in the Christmas decorations strewn up, "—I need to buy a present."

"A present?" Dean states flatly.

"Yeah."

"Since when did you buy legit presents?"

"Since I went to Stanford."

Bullseye.

Dean's shoulders slump ever so slightly, the fight draining out of him. He sighs, "Fine, but Sam just take it easy."

They move toward the Impala, Dean resting a hand on Sam's back, guiding him safely. As he starts the car, Sam lies his head on the seat, his eyes falling shut. His head aches and he's still freaked out by the vision, but he needs to figure it out first. And besides, if they didn't go back to the room, the vision wouldn't come true.

It's a start.

* * *

He always feels like crap after the visions.

He wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep off the aches in his mind, but he has to keep this charade going. He can feel Dean's gaze, trained on his little brother like a hawk, waiting for any sign that Sam is in over his head. He can't give Dean an opening to find out the truth because he knows exactly how Dean would react—badly.

His older brother would bluster and claim that the vision would never come true, when in fact, they both know that Sam's visions always come true in some form or another. Once Dean realized that, then his brother would bolt, leaving Sam behind, sure that distance would be the only solution to keep them both safe.

No, this lie is the best course of action.

As he stares at the leather wallet that he might want to get Dean, he feels the spike being driven into his mind. His eyes widen and he manages to catch Dean's worried gaze before the world darkens and he's—

Back in Hell.

"Trust me," Dean mutters, pressing the shotgun to Sam's chest. They're not in the motel room now so the vision has changed, but the downside is that Sam doesn't recognize the living room that they're currently standing in. Dean's emerald eyes flicker with some sort of remorse, "I have to do this."

"Who are you?" Sam hisses, struggling against some invisible force that prevents him from moving.

Dean smiles ruefully, "Your death will stop the end from coming."

"Please just—"

But then there's a deafening bang and blood dyes his shirt crimson and he's fading, dying and God, he wishes he had one moment more, one more chance to tell Dean that he—

"Sammy!"

Sam's eyes fly open and Dean hovers above him, hands gripping his shoulders once again.

"Dean?"

"Hold on." Dean's sharp tone brokers no argument and soon, Sam finds himself bundled up in the front seat of the Impala, his brother driving away from the mall.

"I'm okay."

Dean scoffs, "Yeah. Cause the shade of pale you're rocking right now really screams fine." Then softer, "What did you see?"

Sam hesitates, "Nothing—"

Dean sighs, "Don't lie to me. You know whatever it was, we'll handle it."

But Sam doesn't know how to tell his brother that the monster in his vision is his older brother.

"Sam?"

Sam steadies himself, takes a deep breath and then says, "It's you."

And the whole story comes tumbling out.

* * *

Dean, just like Sam predicted, bolts.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and places the phone by his ear, "Dean, come back. We'll figure this out—"

 _"Sammy, I killed you."_

"It wasn't you!" At least, Sam is pretty sure it isn't Dean. But the visions haven't exactly given a clear answer—no, it can't be Dean.

 _"Look, I've called Bobby. He's gonna look into this—"_

Sam sighs raggedly, "Dean—"

 _"I can't risk you, Sam. Don't ask me to."_

And then the line goes dead.

* * *

The first day without Dean is the worst.

Sam's constantly on the phone with Bobby, relaying what little information he gleaned from his visions. Their surrogate father promises to make some discrete calls and do some research.

 _"Just hang in there, son,"_ Bobby's gruff voice filters through the phone, _"We'll get this sorted out."_

So, Sam lies on the bed and watches Christmas specials on the crappy TV until sleep finally claims him. When he awakes the next morning, he decides he needs some air and leaves. The winter air is biting and while he's bundled up in a jacket, it feels like it is just piercing him. Christmas lights twinkle in the sunlight, but Sam doesn't feel very jolly. He walks through the small town, stopping to get a cup of coffee and it's when he steps into the mom and pop shop that he recognizes it.

The room from his vision.

"Hey, Sammy."

He spins around, spying Dean in the door. His brother gestures around the coffee shop and Sam realizes that everyone in the shop has vanished. Whatever has taken over Dean is more powerful than an average demon.

"Who are you?" Sam growls, backing up, but there's no way to escape and he has no weapons.

Dean steps closer, the shotgun clutched in his hands, "I am here to save the world."

"What does that mean?" Sam spies a salt shaker on the table and quickly unscrews the top. Flinging it at Dean, he grimaces when his older brother doesn't even flinch.

"I am not a demon," Dean states calmly, "I am above those base creatures. I serve a higher purpose."

"And killing me is part of that purpose?" Sam's thoughts are scattered as panic sets in. He has no way to defend himself and he doesn't even know what he is dealing with.

"We have seen the future, Sam. It's a world with nothing but bloodshed and grief," Dean smiles at him, but it lacks the warmth of Dean's smile. It's like a puppet being controlled. Dean takes another step toward Sam, "Sam, you consider yourself a good person. You wouldn't want to be responsible for the end of the world, would you?"

Sam's eyes widen, "What are you talking about?"

Dean shakes his head, "I have said too much. I have my orders. You must die."

"Dean! I know you're in there!" It's a desperate attempt to reach his older brother, but for a second, he sees that flicker of warmth in Dean's gaze.

"Enough!" Dean roars, "You will die!"

Sam tries to run, but his body is frozen, his feet rooted in place. The shotgun brushes against his chest and then there's a deafening bang.

Sam falls, shock setting in. He somehow moves his hand to touch his chest and it comes away crimson. Pain soon returns and Sam groans as he forces himself to sit up.

"For what it's worth," The entity controlling Dean states calmly, "You can rest in the knowledge that your death will bring peace."

Sam manages a curse, but it soon dissolves into a hacking cough. He tastes blood on his tongue and he can feel his life slipping away and it's not fair, it's Christmas time and he wants to be with Dean, to celebrate with him and this will destroy Dean—

"I will give you your last wish." Dean blinks and then Sam sees it, the real Dean return to power.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is tinged with concern, and his eyes widen as comprehension sinks in, "Oh, God, Sammy!" The eldest Winchester immediately kneels by his younger brother's side, hands applying pressure to the gaping, bleeding wound. Sam moans and Dean quickly interjects, "I'm sorry, fuck, Sam, stay with me, please, stay with me—"

But it's too late. Sam can feel himself slipping away. As his vision grows darker, he places a bloody hand on top of his brother's lacing their fingers together. He smiles at him and then lets go.

It's over.

* * *

Only, maybe it's not as over as he thinks.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, son." Bobby greets, voice thick with exhaustion. There are bags under his eyes and judging by his rumpled clothes, he hasn't left Sam's bedside in a long time.

Sam winces as he tries to sit up, but strong hands immediately hold him back down, "Stay put, Sammy."

There's Dean, with five o'clock shadow and unmistakable guilt flashing in his eyes.

"You're in the hospital," Bobby states softly, "Take it easy, okay? You've got a bunch of stiches keeping you together."

"D'n?" Sam forces himself to turn his head to really see Dean and Dean's eyes immediately dart to the floor, ashamed.

"Just get some rest," Dean mutters, "You need it."

Sam doesn't want to sleep though. He wants to fix things, but his body has other plans and before he knows it, his eyes have fallen shut.

* * *

Three days later, he's finally discharged from the hospital and resting in Bobby's house.

Dean's been scarce since they got back. After making sure Sam was resting on the couch, he pretty much vanished, though Sam could hear the distant banging from outside—Dean must be taking out his frustration on the cars.

"It was close." Sam states as Bobby steps into the room.

The older hunter sighs, taking off his cap and running his hand through his hair. He takes a seat next to Sam, "From what Dean told me, you flat lined a few times on the way to the hospital."

Sam grimaces, "It wasn't Dean, Bobby."

"I know that and you know that," He replies quietly, "But your stubborn brother won't accept that. In his eyes, he damn near killed you."

Sam pushes himself off the couch, steadying himself and wincing at the pain from his stiches.

"Boy, you better sit your ass down—"

"I have to talk to him, Bobby."

Bobby sighs, "Then, let me help you." He wraps an arm across Sam's waist and guides him outside.

It hurts to move but Sam forces himself to keep going. He can't let his brother blame himself for this. He hadn't been in control of his actions.

At his appearance, Dean glowers, "You should be inside."

Sam waves off Bobby's assistance and crosses the distance between them. The older hunter, clearly sensing that he would be intruding, leaves the two brothers alone.

"Dean."

"Don't." Dean growls.

Sam won't be deterred, "It wasn't you."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean turns away, facing the car once more.

"I mean it—"

"I shot you! That was me and your blood was on my hands and fuck, Sammy, I thought—"

"I know," Sam whispers, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder, "But Dean, it wasn't you. Whatever it was—it was controlling you."

"That's no excuse!" Dean hisses.

"Okay, fine, if we're going by that logic then what I did when I was possessed—"

Dean glowers and Sam shuts his mouth. Still, he can tell his point has gotten across and the walls that his older brother has put up slowly fall, "I just . . . after losing Dad, I can't lose you too."

They've never been good at using words to express their feelings. They've never been those type of guys, but Sam knows in this moment, there's something more that his brother needs.

"It's okay." Sam wraps his arms around his brother and holds him, reassuring him that yes, Sam is alive and everything is okay.

Dean breaks down, sobs wracking his older brother's frame, but Sam just continues to hold him. It was a close call, yes, but for some reason, things worked out and they're together.

"I'm here," Sam whispers, "I'm here, Dean."

Dean's grip tightens ever so slightly.

* * *

So, they spend Christmas on Bobby's couch, eating comfort food and watching Christmas specials. They open presents and drink eggnog and though the circumstances of how they got here are less than ideal, Sam feels like it's one of their best Christmases yet.

He does wonder, though he wouldn't tell Dean, what the entity that possessed Dean meant. Why would Sam living doom the world? How would it know that?

"Hey." Dean nudges him, concern etching his face, "You good?"

There are still unanswered questions, but for now, for this moment, all is right in the world.

Sam beams, "I'm great."

And Dean's dazzling smile is reward enough.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Had a blast writing this prompt! Hope you all enjoyed. Please review if you have a moment._


	10. Chapter 10: Fault

_**Author's Note:**_ _Merry Christmas Eve! I hope you all are enjoying the day._

 _Our next prompt comes from_ _ **bagelcat1**_ _, who requested, "Dean gets an awesome early Christmas present (maybe from Bobby?) but by using it he accidentally hurts his brother. Preferably while John is off on a hunt. Dean takes care of Sam and is fraught with guilt over hurting him. I'm thinking Sam is 15 and is too old to be "babied" but secretly revels in Dean's attention." One guilty!Dean and too-cool-for-his-big-brother-but-not-really!Sam coming up! Enjoy!_

* * *

" _A great big house  
That's made out of ginger bread  
Crumbles to the ground  
We're breaking apart."_

— _Colbie Caillat, "Mistletoe"_

* * *

Christmas has never been a big deal in their family.

Their father never really celebrated the holiday and while they did presents and a lopsided tree, they'd never really ever had that "perfect" Christmas, the one that Sam saw in movies. Sam knows, deep down, that it's foolish to expect anything more than what they had now. His dreams of a "normal" Christmas are just that—dreams. Dean seems content with their life and John has shut down any chances of them ever having one day off to properly celebrate the holiday.

Which leaves Sam stuck in the middle, a teenager trapped in a fate that he wants no part of. He's 15 and unlike his peers who get the luxury of family Christmas dinners and luxury vacations, all Sam thinks about is one day being free from hunting and making something out of himself. Something respectable. Something that would make John finally admit his mistakes.

Something that would make Dean proud.

Because, right now, if Sam so much as mentions the dreaded word of "normal", he can see the barriers go up around his older brother, the defensiveness in his tone. Dean thinks their life is perfect and that Sam should just accept it. Sam knows there's more than ghosts and demons. If he can get out and go to college and get a real job, then maybe—

Maybe, one day, he'd have that perfect Christmas dinner with his family by his side.

For now, though, Sam has to content himself with newspaper wrapped packages and absentee father.

They're in Minnesota and there's almost two feet of snow outside, with no sign of it stopping.

"Looks like we're gonna get a white Christmas, Sammy." Dean chirps, an easygoing smile tugging on his lips as he looks out the window. They're actually renting a house, well if you could call it that. Sam would describe it more as wooden shack with bad heating, but hey, for now, it's home.

Sam works on his extra credit English essay at the kitchen table. He doesn't know how many more weeks he'll have at this school, but he needs to do his best if he hopes to get into college. A point of difference in GPA's could lead to either an acceptance or rejection, a chance that Sam can't risk.

Not if he wants to escape.

"Sammy?" Dean eyes him carefully, "Dude, you're doing work?" His older brother claps him on the back forcefully, "Ever hear of taking a break?"

Sam brushes him off, "It's just extra credit."

Dean raises his eyebrows, "Oh. Just extra credit. Cause that makes a difference."

Sam could retort but he chooses to keep his mouth shut. It's Christmas Eve, their father won't be back until the 27th and with the amount of snow outside, Sam's shivering in his layers.

"You want to go out for dinner?"

"It's freezing, Dean."

"So? We'll drive."

"The roads are icy."

"I'm a good driver, Sam."

Sam sighs, returning his gaze to his essay.

"What is with you?" Dean inquires sharply, coming to sit across from him at the table, "You've been grouchy all day."

"I'm not."

"There's the bitch face," Dean smirks, "What is it?"

There are so many responses to that question swirling around in his mind, from half-truths to outright lies, but he's so sick of pretending to be okay. He gestures to the dilapidated house and mutters, "Are you okay with all this?"

Dean grimaces, "Sam, don't—"

"I mean it, Dean," The teenager insists, his voice sharp, "Don't you ever want more than this?"

"This is who we are, Sammy," Dean tells him softly, "The sooner you get that, the happier you'll be."

And that's the end of the conversation.

* * *

When they return from the restaurant down the road, there's a package on the front step waiting for them.

Dean, nearly sprinting with excitement, quickly picks up the box. Holding it up proudly, he faces his younger brother, "It's from Bobby!"

Sam grins, seeing just how much of a little kid his brother is at heart. Only Dean could get so excited over a present. As they head inside, Dean thrusts a smaller package from Bobby into Sam's hands.

"What did he get you?" Dean questions and Sam opens the box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a copy of _The Great Gatsby_. Unexpectedly, his eyes sting as his fingers touch the cover. It's his first fiction book that he's ever owned. Being hunters, they have few belongings of their own and what they did generally skewed towards the supernatural. Having this book . . . it's finally something of his own.

Sam swallows, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat, "What did you get?"

Dean chuckles, "Crossbow."

Sam sighs, "Of course."

"Want to come do target practice with me?"

"Nah, I'm gonna read."

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs quite dramatically, "Your loss, Sam."

Somehow, Sam doubts that.

* * *

Time flies as he devours the pages of the novel.

Before Sam knows it, it's dark outside and he's almost done with the story. He puts the book aside and stands up, stretching.

"Dean?" His voice echoes in the empty house. His brow furrows and he moves toward Dean's room, "Dean? You there?" He pushes open the door to find a darkened room.

Come to think of it, it's been awhile since Dean went outside to play with his new crossbow. While Sam could figure he would be entertained for a bit, it's been much too long. With the snow and the freezing temperatures, Dean should've come back by now.

Worrying clawing at the pit of his stomach, he moves to the front door. Opening it, he grimaces as a gust of frigid wind strikes him. Still, he forces himself to shout, "Dean!"

The howling wind is his only reply.

"Damn it." Sam piles on jackets and bundles himself out. They're near a town, but their house is on the edge of a forest. Dean must have gone there for target practice.

Grabbing a flashlight from the cabinet, Sam locks the front door behind him and heads to the forest.

* * *

Normally, a snow topped forest would be the best sight to see on Christmas Eve.

Well, as Sam approaches the pitch-black wood with only a small ray of light from his flashlight, he finds himself dreading entering it. He doesn't know where Dean is in the forest or if he's okay. That terrifies the youngest Winchester. Sure, they may disagree on the future, but Sam loves his brother. Dean is the one who keeps him sane in this life.

Without Dean . . . well, there would be no Sam.

He steels himself and steps in, forcing his breath to be steady and his gaze wide and alert. He would call for his brother, but he doesn't know what might lurk in here and if something took Dean—

A branch snaps under his shoes.

It happens fast after that.

One second, he's upright and the next, he's falling, pain erupting from his shoulder as an arrow embeds itself. Maybe he cries out, he doesn't know, but all the breath escapes from his lungs and his back falls into a pile of leaves. His immediate reaction is to grip the arrow to pull it out, but a panicked voice screams, "Sammy!"

Immediately, with crystal clear clarity, Sam knows what has happened.

Dean skids to his knees, and even in the dim light of the flashlight, Sam can see the terror reflected in his older brother's emerald eyes.

"D'n?" Sam's voice is hoarse, even to his own ears and he knows that something is seriously wrong.

"I've got you, I've got you, Sammy," Dean chants, his hands applying pressure to the wound, "Shit, Sam, I'm sorry, you just came out of nowhere and I thought—"

Sam knows what he thought. He gets it. Dad taught them to shoot first and ask questions later.

"S'kay." Sam tries to smile, but his shoulder burns and he shivers. His eyes feel heavy and he wants nothing more than to close them—

"Sammy! Stay with me!" Dean snaps, "You're gonna be fine, I promise, got to kick my ass for this, right?" Dean huffs out a laugh, "Sammy, please—!"

But Sam drifts and before he knows it, he's gone.

* * *

One emergency surgery and hospital trip later, Sam finds himself recovering in that crappy house they were renting. Their father is still MIA, though Sam knows Dean left him plenty of messages in the hospital. Still, the way Dean keeps fussing, you wouldn't even be able to tell how anxious he is regarding what John will say.

But, Sam doesn't care. John had nothing to do with this accident. And that's what this is—a horrible accident. Sam knows that and Dean must, but his older brother is too stubborn to admit it.

"You need anything?" Dean questions quickly, standing in the doorway of Sam's room, "Water? Or a book? I could go—"

Sam narrows his gaze, "Dean, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes, "You just asked me this five minutes ago."

"Oh." Dean's gaze darts to the floor as shame fills his face.

"Dean," Sam begins softly, "It was an accident."

"I'll get you your medicine." His older brother turns and leaves the room.

Sam is 15. He doesn't need to be fussed over. He can get his medicine himself and handle this injury. Besides, whenever Dean got hurt, he didn't let anyone help him. With a shoulder injury—though it had been close due to blood loss—Sam wasn't even that bad off.

But, of course, in Dean's mind, Sam is still that little kid that needs to be protected.

"Here." A white pill is thrust in his line of sight.

Sam glowers.

"Take the pill, Sam."

He does as he's told, but only because he knows Dean will force him if he resists. He hates this pain med. It always makes him sleepy and within minutes, he feels his eyes drooping.

But he swears, just when he's about to fall asleep, he hears a whispered, "I'm sorry, Sammy" echoing in his ears.

* * *

Of course, guilt complex aside, Sam does have to admit, it feels nice to have so much of Dean's attention. Usually, Sam did his best to avoid his older brother's mother hen instincts, but now that he's been injured, he recognizes it for what it is—a sign of love. A love that could never be expressed through words, but through actions. With each glass of water that Dean fetched or pill that was given to him, Dean was showing just how important Sam is.

And that makes Sam feel like maybe he does have a place in this family, a reason to make his plan to be normal work. Because if he gets out of this life, he could support Dean and John. The three of them could live out their lives in suburbia, safely tucked behind white picket fences.

"You need anything?" Dean interrupts his reverie and Sam nods.

"Sit down."

Dean does so, without complaint.

"Dean," Sam bites his lower lip, unsure of how to go about this, "It wasn't your fault."

"Sure. Because you asked me to shoot you in the shoulder with a crossbow." His older brother folds his arms across his chest.

"Dean—" Sam sighs, but Dean shakes his head.

"Nothing you can say can make this better."

"I don't blame you."

"Shut up, Sam."

"I get it, okay!"

"I almost killed you!" Dean roars, standing up abruptly, "You can't just expect me to get over that. Jesus, Sammy, if I had lost you—,"

"But you didn't," Sam insists sharply and he does something he hasn't done since he was young. He grabs Dean's hand within his own and squeezes it, "I'm here. You saved me."

But Dean's eyes are still haunted, "It was too close."

"I'm here. I'm okay."

There are more words he wants to say. Things like, "I love you" and "I know you would never hurt me" but it's useless. With them, it's never been words. It's something deeper, some sort of bond that connects them.

A single tear rolls down Dean's cheek. He doesn't bother to wipe it away.

"I'm here, Dean."

With that, Sam wraps his uninjured around his brother's shoulders and hugs him.

"I've got you, Sammy," Dean whispers, "I've got you."

Sam just smiles.

He knows.

He's always known.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I will be posting on Christmas so see you then! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	11. Chapter 11: Recuperation

**_Author's Note:_** _Merry Christmas to those of you that celebrate it! I hope you all had a wonderful day._

 _Today's prompt comes from **idreamofivan** , who requested, "My prompt is Sam is grouchy because the doctor said his wound was not healing properly (and maybe he even got pneumonia or something on top of it) and he needs a few more weeks of bed rest. Dean tries to make the best of it and cheer him up by planning a Christmas that they will never forget. I would love for Eileen and Jody to be there. Feel free to add something going wrong and his wound reopening if you feel like it." I'll be honest, I haven't kept up with the latest seasons as well as I should so Eileen might seem a bit weird, but I did my best. Thanks for the prompt! Please enjoy!_

* * *

 _"I'm sure that you'll forgive me_

 _If I don't enthuse_

 _I guess I've got the Christmas blues."_

 _—Dean Martin, "The Christmas Blues"_

* * *

Sam sighs. Loudly.

Dean doesn't skip a beat, "Don't start."

Sam narrows his gaze, grimacing. Sure, maybe he's pouting like a child, but honestly, he doesn't care. If he has to lie on his bed or on the lumpy couch in the den of the bunker, the youngest Winchester will lose his mind, no doubts about it.

"Dean—"

"Sam, you heard the doctor." Dean's tone brokers no argument, the voice of an older brother who clearly knows best.

Except, Sam isn't ten anymore. He's an adult and the British Men of Letters are still out there and they don't have time to sit around here while Sam stays on bedrest, recovering from a few broken ribs.

"It's not even that bad!"

"They're not healing right, Sam," Dean hisses, turning his attention to the piles of books stacked on the end table, "And your x-rays still showed the breaks. You need to rest."

Sam settles for a low blow, "You wouldn't rest."

Dean smirks, "Would you let me hunt? If it were me?"

Checkmate.  
Sam glowers, folding his arms across his chest, wishing that he could scream out his frustration. It's not right—them just staying put. People out there are dying and need their help and Sam won't just let a tiny injury stop him—

"Hey," Dean holds up a strand of Christmas lights, "You think we should decorate this year?"

Sam narrows his gaze.

Dean chuckles, "Okay, grouchy, but don't expect to get anything but coal for Christmas."

Dean begins to pull out other Christmas decorations from the boxes and honestly, Sam had forgotten that Christmas was even coming. Really, with all the research he'd been doing, the holiday had been the furthest thing from his mind, but Dean had apparently remembered.

"You want to do anything for Christmas?" Dean questions as he unwraps some strings of lights.

Sam shrugs, "Just research."

Dean just sighs.

* * *

Eileen shows up unexpectedly the next day, though judging by the huge grin plastered on his big brother's face, Sam doesn't believe it to be an accident. He's glad to see her, of course. Eileen is funny, sure, but she's smart and one hell of a hunter, but deep down, inside of her, she had this drive that Sam recognized within himself—a drive to make the world safer so that their own tragedies never occur again.

She's pinned her chestnut hair up in a bun and to his surprise, she's wearing one of those cheesy light up Christmas sweaters. As she takes a seat next to him, she laughs and signs, "Don't like it?"

He ducks his head, somewhat embarrassed by her keen observational skills, "No, it's, uh, great."

She smirks and then shoots a glance at Dean. The eldest Winchester is too wrapped up in decorating the Christmas tree—don't even get Sam started on that; he didn't even know that they had a Christmas tree—to notice her lean in, almost conspiratorially.

She signs quickly, "Heard you've been quite the Grinch."

Sam frowns, signing back, "Dean tell you that?"

Eileen smiles softly, "Taking a break isn't a bad thing, Sam."

"It is when we've got more important work to do."

Eileen shakes her head, "But if you were to get worse, I—" Her signing hesitates and she corrects herself, "Dean would be really upset."

Sam doesn't know where he stands with Eileen. He doesn't even know if he wants to find out. He has a track record of ending up with dead girlfriends and if he allows his walls to fall down and then something horrible were to happen—

He would never forgive himself.

"I know." Sam settles for saying.

But when Eileen rests her head on his shoulder, he doesn't have the heart to ask her to stop.

In fact, he kind of likes it.

* * *

Of course, him being a Winchester, shitty Winchester luck has to kick in eventually. It starts off with a cough that soon evolves into a fever and before he knows it, he ends up with an IV attached to his arm and a concerned Dean and Eileen fussing over him.

But that's when Jody shows up. He doesn't know how she knows to come—she's always had that instinct—but the next thing Sam knows, she's sitting at his bedside, humming faint songs and dabbing his brow with a wet wash cloth.

"Jody?" He blinks, trying to clear his vision. He feels like he's been run over a few times, pieced back together and then set on fire.

"Hey, Sam," Jody murmurs, smiling kindly at him, "You feeling okay? Need anything?"

He wants an explanation, but his brain is in a fog and he thinks that even if someone tells him what's going on that he won't remember it. Still, whatever is going on isn't severe enough for him to be in the hospital so there's that.

"Your brother and Eileen went to go get some medicine," Jody soothes, dabbing his forehead with the heavenly cool cloth, "They should be back soon."

"Thanks, Jody." He croaks.

The Sheriff shakes her head, "You never need to thank me, Sam," She tells him quietly, "You and Dean, you're my boys."

He believes her. Sure, their mother may be back now, but when she was gone, Sam long considered Jody his surrogate mother. Today, their lives are so complicated and confusing and while he's glad to have his mother back—really, he is—he never really knew her. He didn't have those important memories with her.

Jody, for all intents and purposes, has been more of a mother to Sam than Mary ever has.

She begins to hum again, a faint tune that Sam can't quite remember the name of and before he knows it, he's drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Things get worse before it gets better.

Fever dreams that make no sense. Pains and aches that stab his chest whenever he tries to take a breath. He thinks he might be dying, but there is never any respite, no cold darkness to take him away.

Just burning pain.

And a soft voice whispering, _I'm here, Sammy._

 _I'm here._

* * *

"Hey," Dean greets after the fever finally breaks, "Welcome back to the land of the living." He's got five o'clock shadow and bags under his eyes, so whatever happened must've been bad. Yet, Sam is in the bunker and not the hospital so maybe not too bad?"

"What happened?" His voice is hoarse, his throat parched and immediately Dean hands him a glass of cool water. It feels heavenly on his throat.

"Pneumonia from your broken ribs," The fact he says it so casually means it must've been really bad. Dean uses calm to mask his panic—an oxymoron, yes, but that's just the way his older brother functions. Dean continues, "We got you some medicine though. Fever broke last night."

Sam forces himself to sit up and winces at how sore his chest is, "Eileen? Jody?"

"Asleep in the guest rooms," Dean smirks, "Guess having all those bedrooms was useful."

Sam smirks.

"Oh," Dean hands him a wrapped gift, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

Sam gapes at the present, "But Dean I—"

"Just open it."

Sam does. Inside, a brand-new journal sits. Sam scrunches his brow up in confusion. His old journal has plenty of space left in it.

"Uh, thanks."

"This isn't for hunting."

Sam waits for him to continue.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, "It's for, you know, life. The good stuff. The memories." He softly adds, "You've been focused so much on helping others and that's great, but Sam, sometimes you need to take time for yourself. I think this could help you."

A million words swirl around in Sam's mind. He settles for hugging his brother instead.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

Dean's grip on him tightens ever so slightly, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** _I will continue posting until I have gotten through all the prompts (unless something major comes up) so I look forward to writing many more stories. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


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